Teint de Neige Lorenzo Villoresi 2000 Eau de Toilette
1
Holy powder, Batman!
The name 'Teint de Neige' translates not to the color of snow, but to a snow-white complexion (it's the extra 'e' missing at the end of Teint that makes all the difference). But whatever - the scent itself is both reminiscent of the color of snow and of the snow-white complexion that one might achieve with a mountain of face powder. How powdery is it? Teint de Neige takes a party balloon full of baby powder, rose, heliotrope, ylang, and white musk, runs up to you, bursts the balloon all over your face and then runs away again, laughing like a maniac.
Wearing Teint de Neige is an experience. You must submit in advance to being smothered with an avalanche of powder, or else you will struggle to fight your way from underneath it all, and you will clutch your throat and gasp for air. Now, if you submit to Teint de Neige, you'll see its shy, babyish beauty hiding under all of that powder. Stretch your legs out under its fluffy blanket of powdered almonds and rose petals, luxuriate in its incredibly fine, plush-toy texture, like the underbelly of a toy rabbit.
It's a major psychological regression, you see, this perfume. You put this on because you yearn for the comforts of what you view as a simpler time, when your mother took care of everything and your only concern was finding Sesame Street on the 4-channel TV. Or you're the kind of girl who dresses up in vintage tea dresses and housecoats from the 1940s, and powder your face with Yardley talc because you believe that all the good times were had in the past, and you've missed out on it all and you're sad about that.
Teint de Neige is a beautiful memory of the past, wrapped up safely in a bubble of powder and innocence, and like any beautiful memory, there's a sort of blind spot in our thinking faculties when we enter that bubble. But that's ok. As long as I can admit to myself that I deliberately want to smell like a freshly-powdered baby or a heavily made-up 40s starlet sitting in a dancehall waiting for her beau, I should be fine. I submit myself to Teint de Neige, but knowingly, and with self-irony.
Wearing Teint de Neige is an experience. You must submit in advance to being smothered with an avalanche of powder, or else you will struggle to fight your way from underneath it all, and you will clutch your throat and gasp for air. Now, if you submit to Teint de Neige, you'll see its shy, babyish beauty hiding under all of that powder. Stretch your legs out under its fluffy blanket of powdered almonds and rose petals, luxuriate in its incredibly fine, plush-toy texture, like the underbelly of a toy rabbit.
It's a major psychological regression, you see, this perfume. You put this on because you yearn for the comforts of what you view as a simpler time, when your mother took care of everything and your only concern was finding Sesame Street on the 4-channel TV. Or you're the kind of girl who dresses up in vintage tea dresses and housecoats from the 1940s, and powder your face with Yardley talc because you believe that all the good times were had in the past, and you've missed out on it all and you're sad about that.
Teint de Neige is a beautiful memory of the past, wrapped up safely in a bubble of powder and innocence, and like any beautiful memory, there's a sort of blind spot in our thinking faculties when we enter that bubble. But that's ok. As long as I can admit to myself that I deliberately want to smell like a freshly-powdered baby or a heavily made-up 40s starlet sitting in a dancehall waiting for her beau, I should be fine. I submit myself to Teint de Neige, but knowingly, and with self-irony.