Puderperle

Do you want to know why the TV recording of the finale was so shaky? I'll tell you:
There it was, the moment everyone had been waiting for. The Bachelor had to choose between the enchanting finalists. A whole nation was glued to their screens with popcorn on Saturday night. It was so exciting. Would he choose the redhead with the green cat eyes or the exotic competitor whose laughter could melt entire icebergs?

The location couldn't have been more spectacular: Hundreds of candles bathed the castle's banquet hall in warm light, and the crystals of the chandeliers sparkled royally. The decorators had crawled on all fours for days beforehand to remove lint from the red carpet with tweezers. Flower bouquets and pyramids of champagne glasses as far as the eye could see. It was impressive.

The 4-meter-high door opened, and the most attractive man ever broadcasted by private television stepped in. What a sight. A dark strand fell casually across his forehead. A labdanum jawline chiseled like marble. You could see your reflection in his patent leather shoes. The suit barely concealed a single benzoe muscle of his trained body. He was always handsome, but today everyone held their breath. He didn’t need the earpiece with the voices from the production team; he delivered his speech to the ladies effortlessly and off the cuff. He briefly recounted the dream dates:
He crafted a plane from a pigeon feather and took one contestant to the Seychelles, then tamed a wild lion by whispering in its ear, thus saving the second lady's life in the desert. His jump from outer space was spectacular. The anxious girl waited on the ground for her hero. Every cobra willingly let him hypnotize it, and in no time, he created a palm paradise with a single shovel-after he had pushed stranded whales back into the water with a tiny tonka bean. He could surely walk on water if he tried. But that would be enough boasting. Chuck Norris doesn’t shoot his entire load at once either.

Now he sat down at the piano. Even the first notes brought tears of emotion to the eyes of everyone present. Much to the dismay of the makeup artists. Now he even started to sing. Of course, he could sing too. What couldn’t he do?

After a painfully long emotional rollercoaster, the moment of the final rose presentation arrived. The nerves were stretched to the breaking point. Finally, he knelt before the redhead. The speech was almost like a royal marriage proposal.
But she reacted somewhat strangely. A regretful expression instead of throwing herself happily around his neck.
Embarrassed, she pointed directly at the camera with her hand. “What’s wrong?” the Bachelor asked somewhat perplexed, still kneeling. “I’d rather have him,” she said with a frog in her throat, clearing her voice while still pointing at the camera. His smile had just frozen. I can only imagine how many men in front of their screens erupted in cheers, feeling addressed.

Now her face was zoomed in on as she tried to explain her decision. It’s not that she didn’t like the Bachelor. Yes, he was even above average attractive and talented. However, he was too perfect for her. So completely without edges and corners. She felt pressured to be just as perfect. Yet she was so human. Everything felt wonderfully warm, glamorous, and noble, but in the long run, she would find it boring.

Since the Bachelor was also blessed with above-average intelligence, he slowly rose from his kneeling position. Now it dawned on him that he had been rejected. But who did she mean? Who was she pointing at in the camera?
“The man behind you,” she smiled shyly. Overjoyed to have been chosen over the most beautiful man on television, the scruffy cameraman in his flannel shirt let the camera fall onto his worn-out Chucks…

And that was the solution to the riddle.
Grand Soir is like the Bachelor. Beautiful, chandelier-elegant, noble, and resinously warm. Vanillic sweet and unobtrusive. Almost royal with etiquette. No note stands out, screams, or goes off-key. Everything is and remains in perfect harmony. Perfect-that is the right word. I thought I had to have it. Two decants that I haven't even finished made me doubt. Something was missing. Spices? Liqueur? A shabby rose? Maybe a sweaty T-shirt or a cigarette? A gap in the teeth… I seem to miss the edges and corners. This would plague me with boredom in the long run. Therefore, I will stick with the decants and enjoy the perfection in the autumn and winter months when I sit at a piano under the chandelier in an evening gown or, more realistically, stroll through the festively decorated city in a cozy sweater. It is excellent for going out and will be used sparingly due to its strong presence. Grand Soir is, of course, a fragrance that can be worn unisex; I only used the masculine form for entertainment value.

Dejected, he rested his head in his hands. In front of him lay a mountain of letters. All rejections for his applications for a dual study program.
“I don’t understand it, you have top grades in your high school diploma,” his father wondered with a furrowed brow. The caring mother served tea and cookies to discuss together. Now it was really about the finishing touches. He already had a tailored suit, the best hairdresser in town styled his hair in a serious manner, and the crisp white shirt hung on the hanger. Yes, he even treated himself to a manicure. Somehow, no one understood it, because he also possessed intelligence and rhetorical skills.
“I’ve got it,” exclaimed the aunt, insisting on a fragrance that would fit the clean atmosphere of the desired employer. Unobtrusive, fine, lightly soapy clean, powdery and fresh. No one could take offense at that. It should be a pleasant scent even for sensitive noses.
Okay, said and done - a visit to the nearest perfumery and amid admiring “Aaahs” and “Oohs,” everyone agreed. Prada L’Homme. No off-note, nothing that would clash or trigger migraines, but it perfectly matched the image of an elegant man in a professional environment. Extremely well-groomed, without being able to name individual notes. It even brought a hint of sweetness. A scent that women would also like to come closer to… - um, after work of course. But let’s take it step by step.

So the young man sat upright, showered, pressed, and prepared, perfectly side-parted, manicured, and well-scented in front of the selection committee. This time, everything would go smoothly. He was sure of it. The slight excitement was an advantage, allowing him to follow attentively. Although he had not missed the confused looks of the HR representatives, how were they to be interpreted? Bosses seemed to be strange people. He could give the right answer to every question, yes, they were even perfect in grammar and content.
Then something strange happened: The CEO stood up, extended his hand to him, and right there on the spot gave him the rejection. “But why?” asked the young graduate, puzzled. “Did I buy the wrong perfume?”
The CEO stepped a little closer, so that he was at the level of the young man's ear. “The scent choice was perfect. I couldn’t have chosen better,” he whispered discreetly, while his gaze wandered to the occupied seat next to the door. “But next time, please come only accompanied by Prada L’Homme… and without your mother.”

Sometimes even the perfect scent cannot work miracles. Now I must spoil it: After this error analysis, he got a second chance, and this time Prada L’Homme was his lucky charm.
The scent is great. Don’t worry, men, I’ll leave it to you. On me, it comes across as too masculine despite the powdery iris. The female counterpart, Prada Femme, doesn’t quite reach the beauty of the men’s version. It has a completely different, creamy sweet character. I’m a bit envious. But one consolation remains: Prada Infusion Iris Cedre is also wearable for me and can easily keep up with Prada L’Homme and the working world, even though Prada L’Homme is generally a famous “go-to” for all occasions with signature potential. Additionally, it’s a safe companion for starting in the world of perfumes.

The L’eau version appears even more transparent, lighter, fresher. A bit weaker in projection as well. However, Prada L’Homme remains the more beautiful one.

First the most important thing: Banger! Clear purchase recommendation.
Here, I'll keep it short - no poetic stuff or poems, because Khamrah doesn't need that:

TikTok influencer got me hooked. I ordered the thing. It comes in a sturdy glass bottle. My husband, hey, it smells brutal and sprays it on. 15 times. Okay, crazy scent cloud, I almost passed out. But awesome. We're going to Kaufland. I'm off to the cucumbers, he’s to the melons. Then someone comes up and talks to him about it. I freaked out, swinging my bag around. The damage was bigger than expected because the bottle was still inside. Heavy as a brick despite the plastic cap. Sorrysorrysorry again for that. But they don’t do that anymore, asking married men about the scent. That’s how it is with compliment-getters! Think about whether you want that beforehand.

Okay, enough rambling, how does it smell now:
Brutal Christmas market. Date syrup with a kick. Spices and very sweet, but not like typical chocolate, more like vanilla praline. Nothing oud or typical oriental. A cinnamon stick hits you in a third nostril or eye. I’m not into esotericism. So what can I say? Price-performance killer.

What’s even better: Khamrah Quawah. But I’m saving that for the gym. Bam.

P.S.: The "sniffer" from Kaufland is doing well again. I gave her the online link for the perfume retailer as compensation. I told you - clear purchase recommendation.

By the way, Kaufland still smelled like it after two weeks. So much for beast mode, for those interested.

And all written without AI.

Dear Hubert,
I write down my thoughts while listening to the crackling of the fireplace. Surely it is improper for a lady to reveal her innermost feelings to a distinguished gentleman. Any form of emotionality seems reserved solely for funerals. But how weary I am of this black dress. Enough of mourning! Dear Aunt has enjoyed life by the grace of God for 98 years and would hardly wish for me to waste my existence in perpetual melancholy. Every further month of feigned sorrow robs me of those hours I would rather dedicate to the scent of spring buds and the sweet whims of inspiration. Oh, may the fresh air blow away all the dust and with it the last shadows of my imposed grief…

Dear Hubert,
I have dared the unimaginable. Gripped by the fervent desire to welcome the awakening of the earth after its winter sleep, I opened all the windows of the estate to greet it. Perhaps this was done in an overly exuberant manner, which some interpreted as rebellion. But how could I have hidden my euphoria? Improper, yes impetuous for a lady of my standing.
I first removed the unbearable dress and took a bath. It felt as if the French soap gently lifted earthly burdens from my skin. How comforting the embrace of iris powder on my porcelain complexion. Until now, it had remained in a state of being unkissed. But I could hardly blame the sun for wanting to try.
Carefully fastening the white lace collar under my chin, with lily of the valley in my romantically styled hair, a rose adorned the buttonhole of my green dress. My legs carried me swiftly like a deer through the garden, into the awakening life. Through the open windows, the sounds of Eloise's playing on the piano danced out, bright and cheerful, as if they flew on wings of relief. Yes, even music may once again indulge in joy, in pulsating anticipation of connecting the separating…

Dearest Hubert,
March is still filled with cool air, accompanied by the chirping of our feathered friends. Let me send a little dove that brings you a soapy bouquet as an invitation for a visit. I still carry your lock of hair in the golden locket at my breast. Every heartbeat unites us, although the miles seem endless by carriage.
Allow me to dispel any budding concerns you may have: The composure of a lady remains my own. However, filled with delight, I hover between longing and bliss, eager to show you the floral splendor of my magic garden. The morning dew still lies upon it, but I sense that a breath of your air is enough to make it melt…
Remaining in joyful hope,
your dearest L. Arpège

Lucky Hubert will be delighted to pay his charming lady with rosy cheeks a visit. Black does not suit her. How fortunate that she chose a fitting dress just in time for his arrival, reflecting her gracefully powerful character.
I expected a vintage scent that had already fallen out of time. Due to the aldehydes in the top note, it was only briefly so. It stylistically reminds me of Chanel No 5, but from the very beginning, it feels simpler and more wearable to me. Also less powdery. Those who do not get along well with Chanel should try Arpège. Arpège is classic, but knows no restraint. Very loud at the beginning. A floral chypre with mature spiciness. Ylang ylang and lily of the valley are clearly present, while iris and rose are somewhat more subdued. The rest is well blended. Lily of the valley remains present. I do not perceive the fruits in the top note. Refreshingly unsweet, only slightly powdery in the course. The soapiness increases, it becomes clean and well-groomed, noble and of high quality.

A slightly cooler breeze carries the scent of the strong spring flowers into the bathroom, mingling with the spice soap and only slowly warming through Hubert's amber touch like the sun's rays of spring. Connected to nature. Inexpressibly beautiful, yet high-necked, revealing the patchouli-resinous longings of the female soul towards the end. The black bottle with a golden cap is quite pretty, but reveals nothing of the true personality.

A 20-year-old had smelled it on me, ordered for her mother, and then kept it for herself. I was delighted by her splendid sillage, for the scent suited her fabulously. Like a well-mannered girl in a boarding school, but burning with passion. None of her peers thought it could be this vintage classic. We let her remain in the dark with a wink. One does not need to demystify everything. It simply smells wealthy and noble, with a cashmere sweater thrown over the shoulders, matching inherited gold earrings. Longevity and sillage are strong and long-lasting, the price a heavenly gift for all who wish to hold it close to their hearts.

The title sounds like a bad romance novel.
Sometimes life is just like that:

“Wow, what is that?” I stopped and tried to trace the scent in the warm summer air with my nose. A sweet, floral cloud of fragrance that was already radiantly sexy, driving me almost crazy. But I couldn't place it. My companion at the time wasn't particularly interested in my trail; he said he smelled “nühüx.”
He pulled me along with the unsatisfying feeling of not knowing what this pleasant source of scent was. It was somewhat familiar, yet special and feminine. Something in my scent memory was working, but it was still too fleeting to connect it.

Distracted by the evenings at the hotel buffet, I quickly forgot the moment. We enjoyed the good Turkish food, the evening lights reflected in our wine glasses, and the hips of the belly dancer moved to oriental sounds.

There! Suddenly that cloud again! Like I had been stung by a tarantula, I straightened up to determine more quickly where the beautiful scent was coming from. And this time even more intensely, with a slight freshness. Was there a bubblegum note in there? How well this enticing scent matched the mood and the beautiful location by the sea!
Almost hysterically, I called out to my suddenly scent-blind companion, asking if he could smell it now? It was impossible not to have noticed this sillage. You could almost grasp it with your hands. It must have been freshly sprayed. I don't know if he just wanted to make me feel good by denying any signals from other female beings or if he simply didn't like the scent. In any case, he was no great help; his interest was in the shellfish.
Near our table, two young women sat down. One of them was the hotel entertainer.
I tried my luck and asked the two about their fragrances. The entertainer wore a scent from a Turkish shop that she had bought in Manavgat. She didn't know the name, but she would send me a photo of it.
The next day, I actually received a picture of a generic glass bottle with a number on the cap. At least the logo of this small perfumery was recognizable.
It’s not hard to guess what sacrifice my companion had to make the next day. Of course - a day trip by dolmus to the city to find this scent.
Finally arrived there, I showed the photo and the saleswoman explained the fragrance notes to me with gestures, words, and an electronic translator. Neroli, Tiaré, and rosewood. A quick search revealed that it was almost identical to "Just Cavalli Her (2013) | Roberto Cavalli."

Now the penny dropped! THIS scent is it?
I had to laugh because I had the original perfume sitting in its box at home in my shelf for ages. Why had I never worn it? No idea. Probably it was sitting next to the also easily forgotten Hugo Deep Red …

The vacation was coming to an end, but I was filled with huge anticipation for my “old” new discovery.
Barely having set down my suitcase, I tore open the wardrobe. “Come to my heart, you beautiful treasure!” We embraced with reddened eyes, and it rewarded me with the most beautiful bubblegum Tiaré, wrapped in freshness and cheerful sexiness, without any cloying or sunscreen and coconut vibes. It was, of course, even finer and more beautifully blended than the copy. The original is always the best. Especially at a price so affordable that there’s no need for a dupe. Nothing disturbs, nothing jabs, no synthetics, just a wonderful summer scent with recognition. (Hehe, already now)
You wouldn’t confuse it with a niche fragrance; it’s too pleasing, too uncomplicated. Longevity is okay, sillage pleasant without being annoying. Neroli captures the sweetness well; it’s neither syrup nor sugar cube but a floral sweetness. Wood remains very subtle in the background.

I apologized for having forgotten it. Luckily, he was not resentful. I traded the scent-blind companion for the tropical bubblegum, who has been allowed to be very close to me since then.

I would rather not say a word about his designer outfit because it’s the inner values that count. Some trends come from fashion; pink snake patterns from 2013 are not necessarily timeless. Still, everything else is far from boring. Nostalgia and metal caps always get extra points.
To find him, I had to travel almost halfway around the world, even though he had always been within reach. Even if he hadn’t been waiting for my grace on my shelf, he would have been available in every drugstore in the vicinity at laughable prices.
But what I learned from this: Sometimes scents become even more attractive when you perceive them on other people in a new way, without being able to make the connection to the familiar perfume.