Puderperle

“Irmgard, something is different about you, did you get a new lipstick?” I wondered, while she just shrugged her shoulders with a grin.
“Yes, I noticed that too,” our colleague José agreed. “You went to the hairdresser!” But he was wrong too.
When Irmgard came to the office this morning after her vacation, a difference was noticeable. Of course, one ideally returns tanned and more relaxed, but Irmgard's glow left much more room for speculation.
“I got it! You weren’t on vacation-you had a facelift!” I tried again.
“Who knows, who knows…” she winked and walked past us. Wow, she brought a fresh breeze with her. We sniffed after her. She seemed to enjoy making us squirm. It bothered us that we hadn’t figured it out by the afternoon. Working was out of the question; we loitered in her office and peppered Irmgard with questions. She couldn’t possibly be pregnant due to her age, and she would certainly never admit to winning the lottery. But her grin was suspicious. “Well…” she hesitated, “what does one understand by a 6 in the lottery?” she stretched the suspense to infinity.
“You're a millionaire and still sitting here??” José squealed excitedly. A giggle could be heard from her direction as she pulled out a bottle with light yellow liquid from her bag and poured it into small shot glasses. “What are we toasting to, Irmgard? Oh come on, just tell us!” I begged.
José first inspected the contents and noticed small green floating particles. Mint. Ah, that’s why it smelled so fresh. She told us she learned this from a bartender during her vacation and tried to mix it herself. So that was it!
“You're in love!” we clapped our hands in delight! The blush on her cheeks was confirmation enough. How lovely. But now the questioning really began-who, when, where, and how…
She pulled out her phone to show us pictures of him; after all, she had never made so many videos in her life. The first four videos showed Irmgard’s zoomed-in nostrils and squinted eyebrows. Then a high-resolution shot of the inside of her handbag. “There!” she grinned. We looked curiously at the display. So she was on a boat. Out of excitement, her painted fingernail clicked on the glass; that must be him. We recognized nothing more than tanned feet and white pant legs in the shaky video. A cheerful male voice seemed to be flirting with giggling Irmgard in Italian in the background.
“Did he just call you ‘sleeve’?” José asked, puzzled. “No! That means Irmel! He’s just Italian,” she defended him.

She had to sift through nearly 380 vacation photos to find a few usable ones of her new sweetheart among the unintentional selfie nostril shots. The “well-done” one showed a washboard stomach, blown by the open shirt. Blurry, of course. “Here’s the best one,” she said, smiling as she closed her eyes and handed us the phone again. We tried to hide our disappointment: the face above the nose was cut off. But a broad grin was visible.
“What does he have for green tufts between his teeth?” I asked.
“Thyme,” she gushed. “He ate that all day.”

Nothing helped; our colleague was head over heels in love, and we would probably never see him properly.

Then we had the clever idea to look online for videos since the beloved was supposedly quite well-known in the region for his mixed drinks. To be honest, it smelled a bit like citrus cleaner.
The guy was called Torino, Irmgard said. Or the place. She wasn’t quite sure anymore.

There! We found him. He seemed to be a very well-known artist from Italy who showcases his skills at upscale events. I could understand Irmgard; he was handsome, charismatic, and full of good cheer. “He’s so young…” José murmured, and I was glad he kept the rest of his thoughts to himself.

In one video, the man showed what he was actually mixing: thyme, rosemary, basil, a lot of mint, and a tub of peeled lemons. Everything mixed together neatly. When he let the heaped scoop of washing powder rain in, we all looked at each other in shock. José could no longer suppress his hiccups, and Irmgard blew bubbles from her mouth.
“And this new scent is done!” shouted the washboard man from the video.
“Sleeve, that wasn’t for drinking, that was for spraying,” I chuckled.
And then it was clear: we were all a little in love with Torino now. He had infected us with his zest for life. We no longer had bad breath either.

Please do not try this at home. Even though it smells very much like lemons and fresh mint, Torino is not a delicious scent but a clean one.
The herbs are noticeable in the background, but mint is the strongest. I can’t pick up anything else as the musk wraps me in a cozy towel.
A beautiful scent, ageless for anyone who wants to smell pleasant, fresh, and well-groomed even in high temperatures, without having eaten thyme. It exudes a friendly, uncomplicated lightness, just like a holiday flirt. However, I would give it a pass for marriage, as it lacks a certain depth, and I much prefer autumn.

No, I am not a criminal. I never was. But isn't it true that sometimes you drift off in thought and they, well how should I put it… feel so real, as if you are right in the middle of the film of your vivid imagination, where everything is legal?

Awraq al Oud is such a trigger. I hold the bottle in my hand. It is made of ribbed glass with a brown gradient and quite heavy. The transparent cap looks like a small whipped cream meringue. Quite pretty in itself, but I would have expected a masculine oud scent in it, and thus it doesn't seem very inviting for me to test it at first.

I spray once and the intensity instantly transports me to a marble bathroom of the distant Orient. Shiny surfaces. Artistic wall paintings. Golden and silver bowls, ornate mirrors, a sunken bathtub filled with fresh rose petals. A cool breeze flows through the open windows. The pretty maids wink at each other with their kohl-rimmed almond eyes, ready for the Queen of Sheba. The echo of slow footsteps reverberates against the vaulted ceilings. Majestic, almost floating, she enters. A vision. The rustling of high-quality embroidered fabrics brushes against her flawless body. The girls would be lying if they said they didn’t look. We all secretly admire the divine silhouette, reminiscent of a Stradivari. How beautiful she is. Immersed in the bath, she stretches her hand into the air. Instinctively, I know immediately what she needs and offer her a wooden bowl with a piece of rose soap. Our eyes follow as she glides over her velvety skin in slow motion, as if she were the most fragile thing in the world. Oh may this enchanting ritual never end. I don’t even notice that I am holding my breath. What an honor it is to be in these sacred halls. Just as I reach out to touch a soap bubble, it bursts and suddenly I am back on my Ikea couch, potato chips to my left and the bottle to my right. What was that? Still captivated by this spectacle, I want to scratch off the golden label and rename it “Queen of Sheba.” Or no, even better…

I spray again and am instantly transported to a Parisian atelier. It feels bustling, a lot of murmuring and the clattering of fine porcelain dishes. I look closer; it’s the antique teacups with rose patterns and gold rims that you almost only find today in grandmothers' display cabinets or antique shops. Drawings for beautiful dresses lie everywhere on the tables. Oh, I almost knocked a hat with netting off a chair.
“We need a new inspiration. Chanel managed it with her number 5,” I hear a woman’s voice say. I turn around. The room goes completely silent, but no one seems to notice me. I am still puzzling over what year I have landed in. The 30s? 40s or perhaps the 50s? The ladies are wearing pearl jewelry and silk stockings with a black seam on their calves. Their hair is carefully styled in waves, red lipstick as far as the eye can see. “May I?” I hear myself say as I fumble Awraq al Oud out of my coat pocket. Since the bottle seems a bit unworthy, I decant it into a crystal bottle shaped like a rose. A splash bottle of course, because one drop is enough. Tied with a red tassel around the neck of the bottle, I offer it to the lady. She doesn’t have time to wonder about the foreign intruder, as she is obviously losing her heart to the magical liquid. With wide eyes, she looks around in shock, “This is it! Chanel has serious competition!” A shrill squeal. Everyone present gathers excitedly around the bottle. “What’s it called?” I manage to say with a smile, “Queen of Sheba,” just before a gloved hand grabs me, I dissolve into thin air, and plop back down on my sofa.

What a scent. I am not ashamed of the thought of wanting to decant the perfume into a more elegant vessel. Lattafa, you have surprised and impressed me. I would sell it for 15 times the price. Sillage and longevity are exceptionally strong. One spray fills rooms. The aldehydes start off energetically, cool, and soapy. Rich, ripe roses unfold their beauty, nestled in a woody shell. It is not a typical oriental oud with a barn-like or cheesy character. Much more palatable and harmoniously subdued. More of a beginner's oud. Also no comparison to other rose-oud scents. It doesn’t get sweet here; I would have almost labeled it as a chypre. Aldehydes almost always have a vintage charm. Here too, a little, but the soap takes center stage and yet it has a timeless character. The scent implies confidence. The desire for a delicate skin scent is ruthlessly overwhelmed here. Would men wear it? Well, if they have no problem with crocheted doilies, why not!
I feel not of this world, but 40 years smarter, elevated, elegant, and super expensive on my Ikea furniture with chips in the crevices. Who can match me?
“I” breathes the Queen of Sheba, pulling me from my dreams in my living room with her rose bowl.

“The morning awakened me with a new clarity. The white coat and my thoughts accompanied me into the forest. The cool air colored my cheeks rosy, my breath steamed. Only my steps could be heard. Only me and the forest. Internally, I let go of the burden I had carried for so long. It seemed as if the coniferous trees were nodding at me kindly and encouraging me. My nervous system relaxed. What burdened my soul was allowed to leave. The layer of dust on everything I feared and the dust bunnies from the dark corners. A feeling of being tidied up spread within me.”

“That was a poetic and profound answer to my question about your New Year's resolutions. But what have you set for yourself or left behind?” he asked more specifically.

“Oh, excuse me, the forest makes me dream. I always lose myself in it,” she replied, glancing a bit shyly at the ground. “I have disposed of the suitcase with synthetic materials. Light cotton and linen dresses flatter me so much better. I have completely sworn off sugar. Every morning, powdering my nose and applying transparent lip gloss will add a touch of elegance to my everyday life without being intrusive. And lightness-yes, I want to float through my life lightly, like a fresh breath of soap that transforms my surroundings into a pleasant scent. How wonderful it would be to dance even through difficult times…”

His eyes became glassy, his breath quickened. He resisted the urge to move a little closer. Still, he dared to ask again: “What do you need to be able to dance in difficult times?”

A shy smile flitted across her beautiful face. “A strong cedar that gives me support and security, so that no wind can blow me away.”

She had actually said it! His heart did a leap of joy. Gently, he took her delicate hands. “Dearest Iris, let me be your Cèdre.”

Who could not rejoice in this wonderful connection? Prada has created something magical. The heavy glass bottle with the ornate silver plate has a nostalgic quality. It reminds me a bit of old apothecary bottles. The contents fit well too. Pure cleanliness and freshness. The cedar greets immediately, covered in cool soap foam. It is not an old-fashioned soap, like one knows from aldehydes. It has remained young, dynamic, timeless. Iris - you pretty Iris. You provide a light powderiness without tipping too much into the feminine. You usually bring lipstick, but here you remain unisex transparent.
Compared to "Infusion d'Iris (Eau de Parfum) (2015) | Prada," you are fresher, airier, and woodier. I smell bright colors, a pressed outfit, and neatly combed hair. Subtle and professional, without emotionality. And even when I sweat-your soap holds up. I perceive you on my clothing for more than eight hours.
Ah, Iris Cèdre, I can only say this: You are beautiful!

How does a busy entrepreneur proceed when his time is tight, but his need for connection is great?
Exactly, he hires his secretary to look for a candidate on equal footing, someone sufficiently familiar with business acumen. Thanks to her efforts on an online dating platform, he found himself at a fancy restaurant just a few days later. A blind date squeezed in between several appointments. He could trust his secretary; she had never let him down before. What should the ideal woman be like? A bit of spice and definitely not boring, was his wish.

He was a bit nervous but resolved to suppress that feeling with rational thought. A winter wind blew in as the door opened. The lady walked straight towards him. After a brief and effective greeting without unnecessary pleasantries, he helped her out of her white coat. Underneath, she wore a plain white pantsuit. Was she perhaps a doctor? Exciting. He knew nothing about her. He stole glances at her, careful not to stare. Flawlessly pale skin. Rosy cheeks.

The waiter approached the table for drinks. “What would the lady like?”
“Executives drink tap water,” she smiled decisively. He had to suppress a chuckle but then ordered the same for entirely logical reasons. Why had he never thought of that? Her self-assuredness impressed him.

The conversation was clear and structured. There was no room for playful flirting.
He almost missed the moment when the water she dipped her index finger into suddenly turned to ice. All very casual while studying the menu.
“Uh, your glass…” he was at a loss for words.
“Yes? Do you want some too?” She looked at him questioningly. Suddenly, the ice cubes in his drink clinked as well. It was impossible to process this moment as the order for food was taken. What did she order? Equally absurd: A bowl of tap water and extra large peppercorns.

“… And you’ll be full from that?” he blurted out. It’s not like he had taken her to a fast food joint. The menu offered all the delicacies one could wish for.
She simply smiled. Incredible. This woman seemed to know exactly what she was doing. She had style, even though the confusion in his mind didn’t cease.
“What do I do for a living? I founded a successful company.”
“Yes, and what kind of company?” he asked somewhat impatiently.
“A rental service for ice cubes.”
He burst out laughing loudly through the restaurant. Goodness, this woman had humor. But when she showed him the website, his laughter literally froze. She wasn’t joking.
Fortunately, the food was just being served. Clink, clink, clink, she prepared herself ice cubes again, but this time in the shape of roses. Then she generously sprinkled coarse grains of pepper over them. He politely declined. Her breath steamed as the rose cubes crunched between her teeth.

She looked at the clock. There wasn’t much time left, as she couldn’t risk a competitor sawing at her leg.
Why would anyone be sawing at her leg?
As if she could read his thoughts, her leg landed with a thud on the edge of the table. She pulled up the fabric of her pants and… the truffles literally fell out of his mouth as he actually looked at a wooden leg. It was carved from real wood.
He had just a tiny clear moment left and a burning question: “Does everything you touch turn to ice?” Yes, she nodded. Reflexively, he pressed his thighs together.

In his thoughts, he was already drafting a farewell message: “Thank you, Ms. Lalique, the company will get back to you. My interest in a partnership is frozen, but I remain open to professional collaboration…” What he didn’t yet realize: She would hear the words and turn the tear on her cheek into a crystal of ice.

Lalique.
You are hard to describe.
I can’t claim that the scent doesn’t transport emotions. Between goosebumps and cool distance lie a rosy smile and a sneeze from the pepper.
The woody base brings hardly any warmth to the icy body. The bottle already clearly indicates where the journey is headed. Frosted matte glass with black grains at the corners. I don’t find it powdery or sweet at all. Tonka, where are you when you’re needed? Patchouli joins the wood. But everything still stays within limits. Cold, woody, rosy, and spicy. Above all, however, distant. I like the scent better on a man than on my skin. It has a special character, which is why it is often suggested for professional purposes. It is not among my favorites. It probably never will be. It took a while before I could somehow grasp or understand it. But that’s certainly because I don’t understand anything about the ice cube rental service.

“She was the most beautiful among us,” sobbed the mayor's wife. “And the kindest,” cried the best friend.
Tears streamed down the faces of the mourners. It was hard to bear. The tragedy shook the entire village community.
A framed black-and-white picture with a ribbon only hinted at how enchanting the deceased truly was. Young and delicate, with her whole life ahead of her. Her silky hair always smelled of powder, and her skin had been soft and flawless.
“Because she bathed in rose water and powdered herself with heliotrope,” the postwoman knew.
“We still don’t know which flower cream she used,” lamented the village plump woman, who was more saddened by having to bury the unsolved mystery. A bit too emotional, she tossed a handful of vanilla pods into the grave. “Behave yourself,” whispered her bald husband, nudging her in the side. He found it hard to hide his genuine sorrow, so as not to disturb the peace at home.

United, they now stood at the grave, taking turns tossing ethereal leaves onto the lowered coffin. None of the villagers seemed surprised, as the powder doll was known for her helpfulness and medical know-how. She regularly made house calls and healed broken hearts with anise and eucalyptus, which she conjured from her little purple suitcases.

The loudest sniffles came from the row of young admirers, for none of them had been able to save the beauty.
Because their eyes were already so swollen, the village heartthrob accidentally dropped his used handkerchief into the hole instead of the amber chunk. She had loved the autumn-sweet scent of amber. He would sometimes let her smell it when he was allowed to dance a waltz with her in return.

But there was good news: The perpetrator could be identified on the day of the funeral by his dirty fingernails, which were secured as earthy traces on the victim's dress. Who would have thought? It was the gravedigger Pat Schouli!

Oh dear, what a sad story. Unfortunately, my heart felt exactly the same while testing it. An indescribable beauty appears in the first two seconds. Feminine, delicate, sweet, and primarily powdery. Yes, that’s how I want to smell. Just before one can grasp it and hold it to the heart, earthy, dirty grave shovels appear, wanting to pull it away. A struggle for the pure soul begins. In the background, anise makes its presence known and finds an audience with the ethereal eucalyptus. However, the flowers are too far away to really witness the spectacle. Vanilla defends itself, coming through well. The rest goes unnoticed.

The soul thief, which inevitably reminds me of rot or damp earth, usually doesn’t sit well with me.
For some, the combination may work well, but I simply cannot separate them; patchouli bothers me.

Thus, a veil of sorrow lays over my mood, for I can no longer redeem my porcelain fairy. She is too far down in the grave. Sadly, I release my grip and leave her to the lord of the earth.

As a farewell, I carve “... unfortunately, you will never be mine” into the wooden cross. Rest in peace, you village beauty.

As I have already run away, she managed to free one leg from the grave. Unfortunately, I didn’t have the patience to wait that long.

Thank you, dear Pollita, for the testing opportunity.

P.S.: I know that raw amber chunks smell terrible. I just romanticized that fact a bit for the story.