Shalimar Guerlain 1986 Eau de Parfum

Determined, I opened the door of the perfumery. The heels of my Louboutins clacked on the marble floor.
Oh right, don't forget to smile.

The head of a sales clerk appeared above the shelves. She had probably stood on tiptoe. In an overly friendly manner, she came tippy-toeing around the Paco Rabanne advertising aconite and eyed me unabashedly.
"Can I help you saaaain?"

I automatically mirrored her smugness. Of course, I absolutely need her help for my project:
"Yes, that's terribly kind of you, I would like to test a classic women's fragrance that is still wearable today."

I slowly turned in the direction of Guerlain. But she steered unerringly in the direction of Chanel. She reached out and held the strip of paper under my nose. I immediately recognized No. 5, but played dumb.

"You've picked out something nice," I praised her.
As it was a little too powdery for me, I asked for another selection.
Quelque Fleurs was too floral for me, Aromatics too spicy and White Linen too clean. With a bit of coaxing to see if she could use her expertise to show me something vanilla with an exotic name, she went for Eden. The old woman was really slow on the uptake. It's hard to believe, but fake praise takes effort. I almost wanted to give up until she stopped and placed herself in front of the Guerlain shelf, scratching her head. I breathed out a sigh of relief. She was finally standing where I wanted her to be.
Her eyes wandered through the individual flacons until

"Here I have something,"

she held up the enchanting bottle of Shalimar, the object of my desire. The amber-colored liquid sloshed in the artfully crafted glass bottle. She removed the blue cap and sprayed the fragrance generously onto my outstretched forearm.
I closed my eyes. At last. This is what heaven felt like. I looked down at myself, but couldn't make out anything at first. Was it the clouds or thick smoke? It would be news to me that angels have a fondness for tobacco, or also very unlikely that the throne of heaven is currently burning down. What could it be?

A row of enchantingly beautiful temple attendants came dancing and singing towards me. I was amazed. The first held incense in her hand, which she swung around me with gentle movements. The second put a crown of bergamot on my head for a citrusy touch. The third dancer helped me into a delicate silk dress, the surface of which shimmered golden. The mirror bearer concluded the round dance with an invitation to look at me. I rubbed my eyes. What had happened to my legs? Were they vanilla pods? Indeed they were. Endlessly long vanilla pods. But it looked kind of good.
I felt a hand on my shoulder and as I was about to sway and join in the dance, I heard

"Hello? You don't like the smell either?"

Suddenly the perfume saleswoman with the forced smile and far too small blazer brought me back.

"Uh no, unfortunately no. Not at all," I lied, but kept the bottle in my hand. To keep her happy, I smeared enough honey around her black-rimmed mouth and asked her one last time for a particular fragrance that I knew was not available in the store. The lady was obviously feeling flattered and started chatting about her private life. Then she hovered overzealously at her tablet to check order availability.

My phone rang and I apologized for not wanting to keep the poor cab driver waiting. Before she could complete the order, I thanked her profusely for her excellent advice, dropping Shalimar inconspicuously into my coat pocket. Outside, I turned off the alarm clock and walked slowly to the bus stop so that the crown wouldn't slip....

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No, dear readers, stealing is not good. Not even with testers. Handcuffs are not necessarily the most beautiful accessory.
I cannot agree with the descriptions that the fragrance is old-fashioned. The very first time I tested it, I was transported to another world, as described above. Bergamot on the head, the endless, not too sweet vanilla pods, wrapped in a warm smoky cloak. Timeless elegance and character, beauty and nobility. Not dressy enough for jeans, rather a companion for the grand entrance. A hackneyed word from the AI, but I can't say it any other way but to whisper reverently: Shalimar is truly a "masterpiece" for me.