18
Very helpful Review
Bitrex in the Laundromat of Dreams
Before I tested L’Heure Bleue, I read the statements and some reviews. (Spoiler: “That was a mistake [sic!]”. But: Actually, I’m “not that kind of person”! Really not, my wrists were occupied, and the “one-finger-one-perfume method” is too exhausting for me, and if it’s not, then too decadent.)
So I read: “Not for dark souls”? “Melancholy”?
Mood of the fragrance: “Sad”?
Yet I had my oversized smelling bulb for a cat already on the spray button of the sample and was convinced we would become friends, maybe friends for life.
Then... after a long wait, my esteemed readers, to whom I have just dedicated this unnecessary, extravagant introduction, the time has come for L‘Heure Bleue and 4ajbukoshka’s first tête-à-tête.
So here follows the inner monologue of 4ajbukoshka, as it seems that L‘Heure Bleue has been left speechless by this disrespect.
The first seconds: “This is how laundromats must have smelled - back when there were no laundromats. Wow! A spicy breeze blows by briefly, then it just smells so soapy-clean-beautiful. I didn’t know I had a thing for soaps, but now I do. Bam! That hits.”
Love at first sniff? Far from it.
4ajbukoshka’s smelling bulb grazes the wrist. Nausea. “Another overdose of coffee or was it L‘Heure Bleue? Je ne sais pas.” (I tried it on three different days, and by now I can say, I know.)
The soapy-beautiful scent fills the air. “Yes. SUCH A THING deserves the name masterpiece, honestly.”
Let’s try again! Smelling bulb to wrist. Nausea!
“But the air around me smells so nice!”
In 4ajbukoshka’s head, music plays: Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart’s canon “Lick me the peach nice and clean.”
The scenic image: scrub scrub, the washcloth foams. There’s still soap on the peach. One would almost want to take a bite because it shines so beautifully, but then it would just foam in the mouth as if one bit into a piece of soap, bljachamucha (a mild curse word).
“Does this explain this incredibly latent nausea?”
As a child, 4ajbukoshka bit into a piece of soap. It smelled so delicious, edible, enjoyable.
And yet, there probably was a label saying “Bitrex, so that children don’t get the idea to eat this soap and generally consume cleaning agents orally” or there was a picture indicating this.
Well. Here I would wish for it.
And so I use up my sample of L‘Heure Bleue and look forward to our next encounter, however, not a tête-à-tête, but a corona-compliant meeting with distance, perhaps comparable to visiting an aunt you miss after not seeing her for a long time, and after a short time, you’re glad when she starts her journey home.
L‘Heure Bleue is not a spontaneous short visit. I looked at the label several times to convince myself: It’s an EdT. Incredible how much presence is packed in there. Some could take a few slices off (Ellena, cough cough). It’s almost too intense for me, and in the quiet hope that the EdP isn’t even louder, I make a discreet exit (and then accidentally knock over a vase).
So I read: “Not for dark souls”? “Melancholy”?
Mood of the fragrance: “Sad”?
Yet I had my oversized smelling bulb for a cat already on the spray button of the sample and was convinced we would become friends, maybe friends for life.
Then... after a long wait, my esteemed readers, to whom I have just dedicated this unnecessary, extravagant introduction, the time has come for L‘Heure Bleue and 4ajbukoshka’s first tête-à-tête.
So here follows the inner monologue of 4ajbukoshka, as it seems that L‘Heure Bleue has been left speechless by this disrespect.
The first seconds: “This is how laundromats must have smelled - back when there were no laundromats. Wow! A spicy breeze blows by briefly, then it just smells so soapy-clean-beautiful. I didn’t know I had a thing for soaps, but now I do. Bam! That hits.”
Love at first sniff? Far from it.
4ajbukoshka’s smelling bulb grazes the wrist. Nausea. “Another overdose of coffee or was it L‘Heure Bleue? Je ne sais pas.” (I tried it on three different days, and by now I can say, I know.)
The soapy-beautiful scent fills the air. “Yes. SUCH A THING deserves the name masterpiece, honestly.”
Let’s try again! Smelling bulb to wrist. Nausea!
“But the air around me smells so nice!”
In 4ajbukoshka’s head, music plays: Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart’s canon “Lick me the peach nice and clean.”
The scenic image: scrub scrub, the washcloth foams. There’s still soap on the peach. One would almost want to take a bite because it shines so beautifully, but then it would just foam in the mouth as if one bit into a piece of soap, bljachamucha (a mild curse word).
“Does this explain this incredibly latent nausea?”
As a child, 4ajbukoshka bit into a piece of soap. It smelled so delicious, edible, enjoyable.
And yet, there probably was a label saying “Bitrex, so that children don’t get the idea to eat this soap and generally consume cleaning agents orally” or there was a picture indicating this.
Well. Here I would wish for it.
And so I use up my sample of L‘Heure Bleue and look forward to our next encounter, however, not a tête-à-tête, but a corona-compliant meeting with distance, perhaps comparable to visiting an aunt you miss after not seeing her for a long time, and after a short time, you’re glad when she starts her journey home.
L‘Heure Bleue is not a spontaneous short visit. I looked at the label several times to convince myself: It’s an EdT. Incredible how much presence is packed in there. Some could take a few slices off (Ellena, cough cough). It’s almost too intense for me, and in the quiet hope that the EdP isn’t even louder, I make a discreet exit (and then accidentally knock over a vase).
Translated · Show original
5 Comments
Whoever imitates or counterfeits Mozart's canons or circulates imitations or fakes will be simmered during the blue hour according to §§ 233 and 382c,d of the Juice Law, not for less than 3 hours!!