Byrehoe

Glossier You, with a cigarette. An almost chlorinated pear-ambrox, which quickly sobers into a cool, synth musk. Filed under “white noise scents" next to Fugazzi’s Angel Dust. But if Angel Dust feels like heather-grey cashmere, Another 13 is tight white pleather. A lived-in synthetic. There’s a very faint secondhand smoke accord here, which I usually hate, but functions to humanise an otherwise alien purity. I didn’t know you could make a soap bubble scent feel grungy (grungy in a Saint Laurent Zippo lighter way) until A13. Like you're never disheveled, only dishabille. It’s office-safe, has solid longevity, and such an easy reach, but a little too soulless for me. Hovers between true neutral and neutral evil.

Mental Snapshot: You’re en route to a night of dirty martinis in a modern art gallery, but the Metro is down. You’re still wearing that slim-tailored suit from your finance job. Fine by you; you can walk miles in four-inch stilettos. It takes you one cigarette to strut there, and you do so listening to a deconstructed club EP. I could never be you.

tl;dr: office siren final boss

Came across this fragrance when I opened my outrageously chic friend’s wedding invitation (raised lettering, pale nimbus white). Immediately texted to know what drug she had sprayed it with. The scent is hard for me to define: an unabashedly synthetic floral, cleaner and crisper than any bloom found in nature. Think a digitally-rendered fantasy flower, sharpened just shy of pixelating. The backing lychee is bright, tangy, stippled in dew drops. And boy do I love a good stock photo fruit. Leans unisex and nails that dewy cleanliness akin to my most beloved Mojave Ghost. There’s something sci-fi about it. Like what space station aristocracy might genetically engineer, once flowers go extinct. Despite spanning my favourite scent profiles and having that slight uncanniness I crave, I enjoyed Fleur Narcotique best at arm’s length. Something a little too perfect on my skin for regular wear. Filing under “android pheromone” fragrances, along with Ganymede and Ghost in the Shell.

Mental Snapshot: My first thought was that it must smell like the inside of one of those niche high fashion magazines I could never afford to peruse: high-gloss photo paper, large as a coffee table book, crisply sealed in an airtight package. And you’re paging through this magazine in an all-white boucle medspa lobby, orbiting high above a cyan sea.

tl;dr: alien bouquet

Woof. Echoing the masses – this is all calorie, no kitten. Boujee Kitty: great name for a short-lived Drag Race contestant, questionable name for a popcorn perfume. However, if you’re looking for bang-on caramel corn, Boujee Kitty is your girl. The caramel is remarkably literal. Unfortunately, with how syrupy its sweetness, I just feel sticky. Wears more like a residue than a perfume. Dessert is my favourite meal, but I just can’t wrap my nose around the hyperglycemic gourmands. If you’re looking for something more figuratively kitteny, Calico by Nostos delivers a snuggly, fluffy musk.

Mental Snapshot: Opening night of CATS. You’ve dropped your mobile between the seats. Not very Jellicle of you. Groping blindly beneath your chair, you feel only petrified popcorn and candy ectoplasm. You can’t seem to wipe it off. Just as the edible kicks in, Jason Derulo floods the screen and screams “MILLKK!”

tl;dr: Bustopher Jones Caramel Corn 22

Smoked vanilla supporting actor, boozy black cherry lead. There’s a real internal heat to this fragrance. It smells – for lack of a better word – hot. Fevered skin under a leopard fur coat. It’s Lost Cherry minus the almond cyanide, Cherry Punk minus the leather jacket. Runs in the same clique as Babycat. I’m not a cinnamon girl, but here it kindles beautifully with the saffron. And the cherry is truly exquisite. Petition for Sarah Baker to bring us the Cherry Trinity after finishing the Vanilla Trilogy. I wouldn’t say it’s a Yuletide scent, but it’s definitely one for the darker months. Lasts longer than your wild night out and really clings to the skin. (I’m at seven hours and still going strong).

Mental Snapshot: Chocolate velour tracksuit, 4” cork wedges, and a generous hand of bronzer. You have the best table in the house (the Cheesecake Factory at the Glendale Americana). No SkinnyLicious chicken for you. You and the gals are splitting an entire Very Cherry Ghirardelli®. Compliments of the chef, of course.

tl;dr: hot mama

A rare industrial tropical. Drawn in by the promise of yuzu and the Mad Libs-esque name, stayed for the leather festival. Opens with a beautiful, Rubenesque mango and sparks of citrus, before leather and gasoline cannonball in. Leans petrol party on fabric, fruit forward on skin. However, oiled black leather was the dominant note for me both ways – think being bear hugged by a benevolent gang of bikers that have just come from a Zara Larsson concert. It’s a Folsom Street circuit party, and they’re only serving cocktails with paper umbrellas. I best enjoyed this scent when I puffed two sprays on my shirt and let it fumigate my laundry room for a full day. Felt like the fragrance was wearing me otherwise. No hyperbole when I say it lasts for days.

Mental Snapshot: This is the Citadel in Mad Max, only humid and jungled. Mad Max: Fury Road to Hana. Riding leathers, ripe fruit, hot greased metal. The Imperator is back from Gas Town and it’s going to be a revel for the ages. The war boys are wearing leis. Do not become addicted to aquatics.

tl;dr: Mad Maxgo