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Alternative practitioner cracks Nivea formula
Well... At the first spraying on there is only a faint smell. I'm already thinking whether I have to do with a "Body Mist", and fog courageously after.
The scent makes me think of strawflowers - or rather: a meadow after a long heat wave, whose aroma wafting from afar. It is shortly before the hay mowing, the meadow flowers and herbs steam out something minimal spicy-resinous. The overall impression goes in the direction of organic cosmetics.
In my imagination, I am in a healing and massage practice. In the communal kitchen someone has put on chamomile tea, through the tilting window flows the meadow smell. All very unobtrusive. I relax on my lounger.
Just as the masseuse closes the window and tells me that she only buys Hauschka products, another smell in the room grows stronger and stronger.
"Funny," I say, "I could swear I smell Nivea, the one in the blue can."
"Oh," says the masseuse blushing, "yeah - I just can't get away from that one."
I sense: where Nivea is a guilty pleasure, nothing bad can happen to you. To women who wear Angel's Trumpet, I hand my child and tell them of my troubles, because gentle understanding awaits me.
After four hours, the scent on my skin has quietly departed after one last Nivea burst; it still hangs in my wool sweater and has added a slightly soapy quality. Overall, a nice scent. I may not wear it myself, but like to meet him from time to time.
The scent makes me think of strawflowers - or rather: a meadow after a long heat wave, whose aroma wafting from afar. It is shortly before the hay mowing, the meadow flowers and herbs steam out something minimal spicy-resinous. The overall impression goes in the direction of organic cosmetics.
In my imagination, I am in a healing and massage practice. In the communal kitchen someone has put on chamomile tea, through the tilting window flows the meadow smell. All very unobtrusive. I relax on my lounger.
Just as the masseuse closes the window and tells me that she only buys Hauschka products, another smell in the room grows stronger and stronger.
"Funny," I say, "I could swear I smell Nivea, the one in the blue can."
"Oh," says the masseuse blushing, "yeah - I just can't get away from that one."
I sense: where Nivea is a guilty pleasure, nothing bad can happen to you. To women who wear Angel's Trumpet, I hand my child and tell them of my troubles, because gentle understanding awaits me.
After four hours, the scent on my skin has quietly departed after one last Nivea burst; it still hangs in my wool sweater and has added a slightly soapy quality. Overall, a nice scent. I may not wear it myself, but like to meet him from time to time.
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Rubia
