Puderperle

“Yet, you are beautiful.”
“But what is it then?” she asked with wide-open eyes and a hint of desperation. We were going in circles, and honestly, it pained me to be so direct. My sense of responsibility wouldn’t allow me to see such a young soul plummet into the depths of the Indian tomb accompanied by sharp words like knife tips.

With a voice choked with tears, she tried one last time, “Please tell me.”

I drew in air noisily through my teeth. She promised not to be hurt, but what did that really mean? She didn’t know what she was expecting.

“You know that I generally like you,” I began.
She nodded a bit too eagerly. Her eyes pleaded with me to say what she hoped to hear.
“When you enter the room, from second one, you have the ability to turn heads. Women admire your beauty, and men are attracted to you. At least, only the people who are in immediate proximity. Your aura is not the strongest…”

She was still listening attentively, her expression unchanged.

“… and everyone knows that you smoked before coming in.”
A flush crept up her cheeks, and she shyly lowered her gaze. “Don’t tell my parents,” she whispered.
No, I wouldn’t do that. She came from a family of smokers; it was only a matter of time before she would try it herself. And honestly, it gave her something mysterious. It suited her.

She had tried so hard to please me. I praised the crown of bergamot in her hair and that her delicate skin from head to toe carried the scent of a soft body powder.
Head - that was my key point. For this, I had nothing but admiration. Now came the big but.
“You can’t help it…”
“What for?” She seemed tense, her fingers trembling.

I cleared my throat extensively until I could no longer run away from it. “You know, it’s a beauty ideal to have long legs. The demand for mile-long vanilla legs is enormous. Unfortunately, they overshadow my physical well-being, and I feel crushed. Yours are longer than the rest of your body and…” I paused briefly, “that’s why we are not on eye level. You tower over me.”

Disappointment settled around her drooping shoulders. I thought I had perceived a subtle nod.

But now the moment had come that I feared the most. Gently, I squeezed her hand. My heart was pounding in my throat. Just say it. Say it!

“I’m in love with your mother.” Now it was out.

She looked at me in astonishment until a warm smile spread across her face. This didn’t surprise her, as her gut feeling had already revealed that the somewhat rougher mom suited me better. After all, she was more mature, stronger in character, and wouldn’t easily leave my side like she would. Because as a daughter, she still possessed a youthful transience. Problems with eye level wouldn’t arise either. Even though the resemblance between the two was undeniable.
She gave me her blessing to be happy with Shalimar Eau de Parfum after I thanked her for her understanding.

How sweet she was. Much sweeter than she should have been, I thought.

Thank goodness I hadn’t mentioned the golden print on her pretty glass dress that I felt was inappropriate. Because later I learned that the Art Deco font was symbolically associated with her birth year. A personalization, so to speak, that does not stand in the way of her inner values.

Thank you dear @Guerlinchen for entrusting me with the glass printing secret.
Thank you @NurPixie for the testing opportunity through your sharing.

I didn't see it coming. Maybe I didn't want to see it. The wishful thinking was sometimes more beautiful than the stark reality. Naked and vulnerable. That's how I felt right now. The tears tasted salty as I turned into my driveway. Minutes passed before my legs moved and hoisted me out of the car seat. Like leaden lumps.
Parts of my heart numb, disordered, scattered in all directions. The brightly painted future suddenly dissolved, like a massive sandstorm. Nothing could be grasped anymore. Nothing really recognizable, disoriented.

Like a wounded deer, I sank into the tub. Washing away the emotional dirt of the soul. Everything that didn't belong to me. In the hot steam, the inner current calmed down a bit.
My body tingled, and my fingertips mechanically spread a thick, soft cream on my thirsty skin. I imagined bright doves would caress me with their wingbeats. In the background, the gentle voice of my Babushka sang a lullaby. How much the memories of her had already faded, but now they seemed clearer than ever. She had truly loved me. I had always been her girl.

Walking barefoot to bed, only dressed in delicate cream. The gentle scent of the white cotton sheets embraced me. So clean, so pure. No dirt and no noise. Just let the tired limbs fall and be carried.

With closed eyes, I buried my face in the soft nest, among the quietly crackling down feathers.

“Here you are safe.
Here you are allowed to be.
Here you are home,”

they whispered to me. Home! Here I was truly home. The happiness I had sought outside was so close after all. A lace bandage wrapped around my sad heart.
“Time heals all wounds. Trust the Process” was written on a little note I found under the pillow. Comforted, I could smile again as my soul rocked into sleep.
-----------------
Takhail translates from Arabic as “imagination.”
However, the fragrance only allows for a limited framework for inner images, as the association with the rich Dove or Nivea body cream seems to be predetermined. Freshly showered, cleanliness and white bed linens provide a feeling of security and arrival. Just feeling good. A loving person who genuinely means well and pulls up the starched sheets to the tip of your nose to ensure that the cold finds no hiding place.
In the “clean” cotton frame, there are no limits to the imagination.
Takhail is not old-fashioned, even if Babushka was mentioned. Rather familiar. Despite slightly sweet undertones, gentlemen might also find pleasure in it. Nothing jabs, nothing disturbs. No synthetic needles, as are often found in Arabic perfumes these days. According to Smellnice's statement, the fragrance is supposed to be alcohol-free, which is why the dosage on textiles should be considered.
I wouldn't describe Takhail as a laundry detergent scent, but rather as a creamy skin scent without vanilla and other unnecessary flowers.

The bottle allows for further dreaming once you’ve made yourself comfortable. Frosted, transparent glass with a pretty, oriental pattern. The ribbon adds a romantic touch. The milky white liquid also fits harmoniously into the overall picture. Overall, a refinement for any vanity, beautifully draped next to pearl necklaces and powder compacts.
I can definitely imagine Takhail as an office scent or in customer/patient contact.

The longevity is moderate, and the sillage is surprisingly dense for a clean cream scent. One to two sprays are enough to perceive it very well. Nivea, on the other hand, behaves like a watery sip.
The first test triggered a shock love that made me forget all sandstorms.

Thank you, Duftwolke77, for giving me the opportunity to get to know Takhail. Since then, he has moved in with me. Sometimes you know immediately when you have found your home. He is unbelievably beautiful.

The critique is not meant to offend any fragrance lover; it should rather be read with a wink.

What could be more beautiful than taking the train to work on a summer Monday morning? The only comfort were the familiar faces at the platform, who nodded encouragingly in greeting. We shared the same fate and habitually sat in the same seats.
A new passenger entered our compartment, taking up space with a huge rolling box with a handle. What could possibly be inside this mobile coffin? I had no idea that I would regret my curiosity in just a few hours.

I noticed that all eyes were horrified as he pulled out a can with warning signs about highly toxic ingredients from his backpack. Whistling, he poured the contents over a small bowl of fruit salad and mashed everything together with a plastic spoon into a compote. "Crap," he said, while trying to remove splattered mud stains from his turquoise velvet suit with spit on his thumb. Of course, it didn't work. The stuff stuck like glue. One clumsy hand movement, and the fruit salad splattered against the ceiling and rained down on us. Ungrateful as we were, we gasped and yanked open the squeaky windows. What a chemical cloud of odor! The summer thermometer rose, and the fermentation process intensified. When the ticket inspector arrived, he threw the man off at the next station. Aha. Canned fruit, but no ticket. The crowd applauded and waved to him through the window. Pulling his box, he cheerfully waved back with his free hand. Maybe we would be able to breathe again someday.

Don't ask me how I made it to the office with teary eyes and a disheveled updo. Melli was startled when she saw me. I must have looked like a raccoon with the runny mascara.
"What happened to you? Freshen up a bit, the new guy is going to be introduced soon. He's running a little late."

Oh right, the new colleague was having his debut today. Regina, our good soul, whispered to us, "We have to be nice to him; I heard he’s the heir!"
"The heir? Of what? The company?" My pulse quickened as I saw myself breathing through a paper bag in the mirror. The train trauma was still fresh. How was I supposed to make a good impression in this outfit?

An hour later, the entire staff gathered expectantly in the conference room. I pushed away the thought of déjà vu, but why couldn't I shake off that piercing smell? My head was pounding terribly.

"Hello, I am Erba Pura," I heard a loud, euphoric voice. I could hardly believe my eyes, for there stood the young man from the train in his turquoise velvet suit with a mud stain on the lapel. Undoubtedly, he looked good. He rubbed his palms together, causing the shirt over his well-defined muscles to stretch tightly under the jacket.

"Regina, that's not the heir; he just has the same name," Melli whispered. Regina stared like a question mark and switched her hearing aid back on.

"What can I say? I'm the new guy and I brought something for my introduction. 70 kilos of stable fruit salad. Homemade." That's nice, but my goodness, why was he shouting into the microphone until there was feedback?
He grinned proudly and gestured for everyone to help themselves from the rolling box. Aha. The mystery was solved.

The moment Inge lifted the lid off the tub in the box, a murmur swept through the room, and she toppled backward. Ricardo was unable to catch her because the high concentration knocked him over as well. The fumes overwhelmed the employees like dominoes.
"What on earth are needles doing in the salad?" the managing director gasped, tearing his tie from his neck.

Well, they weren't needles, but Ambroxan. What Erba considered stable literally stabbed the colleagues' brains out of their sockets. Ambroxan is, according to my research, a synthetic substance that serves as a fragrance enhancer.

Erba Pura is my personal arch-nemesis. My nose smells a chemically sharp fruit salad. Sweet, loud, screaming for attention. Exactly - through the microphone. Nothing here is delicate or subtle. Longevity: I'll put it in Erba's words: "Perfect beast mode!" Sillage brings back long-lost souls from their graves. Shaghaf Oud is a wimp in comparison.

Outdoors, from a distance, or separated by a glass pane, Erba Pura is fine. Even in homeopathic doses, like walking through a fragrance mist, it’s still bearable. In enclosed spaces and in close proximity, it can, in the worst cases, lead to headaches and nausea, shortness of breath, or even cardiac arrest in bystanders. Okay, cardiac arrest was an exaggeration, but it feels that way. Therefore, this review can also be considered a trigger warning.
However, for anyone who is unexpectedly confronted with the scent, for example in a beverage store, I would like to comfort with the thought that every trend eventually passes. And everyone has the right to wear what they like.

Few things in this world can plunge me into the dark depths of my being like the approaching deadline for a tax return. The deadline was August 1st, and for all the months prior, I shrugged it off: Ah, I still have plenty of time.
As a state-certified diploma procrastinator, I now found myself sitting on the living room carpet, surrounded by folders, unsorted receipts, letters, paper, paper, paper.
It was July 31st. At least the first step had been taken, joining the paperwork. Unfortunately, I realized - as every year - that it was no fun at all. Surprisingly, I am still shocked by this every time. Not even the sitting position was comfortable. So what did I need first? Exactly, drinks. Not just any drinks, but today I came up with the most creative ideas. Blueberries with tasteless honeydew melon and turmeric milk in the smoothie, lavender honey added... hm, it was okay. I got carried away. Boredom was not allowed, so I returned to the paper bombshell with five different creations.
But still, it felt like an invisible wall was stopping me from typing in my numbers. Cleaning the bathroom felt more important at that moment. Then it suddenly hit me that I should finally sort out my kitchen spices by expiration date. The number is quite manageable, and thus, at least briefly, a superficial feeling of happiness arose. But it still wasn’t enough for a motivational boost. With every glance at the clock, the inner pressure noticeably increased. What did I need now to finally sit down and tackle this bureaucracy? I certainly didn’t have ammonia to snap me out of my brain freeze. Erba Pura wasn’t available either.

The lovely Senses from the forum must have known, as she shared that Bugatti had just released a new fragrance. It is said to resemble the sunny "Cheirosa '62 / Brazilian Crush Cheirosa '62 | Sol de Janeiro." Since Câline had really disappointed me with her latest offering, I grabbed my keys and marched right out. After all, I had no time to lose. There stood the new "Bella Donna Dolce Amore | bugatti Fashion." Sealed and without a tester. The pink packaging initially confused me, as the bottle was shown in gold online, and the rest of Bugatti's scents ranged from light pink to Bordeaux, smelling of sweet, fizzy drugstore berries. None of that was my thing. I double-checked online before daring a blind purchase. Belief moves mountains, and so I hoped internally that I would like it. Since it was a disgrace to deal with paperwork on such a beautiful summer day, I needed an emotional soul comforter. Yes, Bugatti had a big task ahead.

The bottle vaguely resembles Goddess Eau de Parfum with its square design. The cap is beautifully solid gold with an oriental pattern on the front. Looks good.
“Please like me, please like me, you have to help me,” I pleaded as I sprayed. Pftpft…
Oh yes, a very familiar DNA of Cheirosa '62 greeted me. But only in the background. Sweet, creamy, nutty roasted, reminiscent of sunscreen. Copa Cabana, Piña Colada… okay, I was dreaming again. However, the top note has a special character that sets it apart as a pure dupe from the original. There are, to my nose, undefinable fruits that react slightly sour with my skin for a brief moment. Luckily, that stays within limits. Floral notes come in, but I can't define them. Not even Ylang-Ylang. Over time, the similarity to Cheirosa '62 diminishes further, and the fruits and flowers now form their own creamy scent.
Sunbeams pierced through the dark clouds of numbers and caressed my suffering soul to South Sea lengths. I felt emotionally picked up and comforted in my misery. Even if there aren’t any, the mere appearance of coconuts makes me happy.

With my head nicely dazed by Bella Donna Dolce Amore and exchanging first impressions on Parfumo, I could finally move my finger to the button to start the laptop.
Since the sillage is typically quite light for Bugatti, I added another layer. This transparent quality also makes it a good companion in high temperatures. Not too sweet, not too fruity, not too floral, not too sunscreen-like, but a good balance. Nothing stands out, nothing annoys.

By now it was already late in the evening, and after 2.5 hours, I had to reapply to perceive it again. Even on my clothes. Thanks to my new scent friend, I was now searching for "Hawaii," "Hammock," and "Beach Package" in the midst of time pressure and a productivity high.
I couldn't even find the expenses for first aid measures for a sunburn. Well, at least there was still a free text for friendly lines to the tax office.

Time flew by, and when I finally checked after the umpteenth time, I clicked with flushed cheeks on my favorite button "send." I really had to laugh when I saw the timestamp of the submission: July 31 at 11:59 PM.
Hey, done is done, right?

But even better was the indication of who contributed to my tax return: "Bella Donna Dolce Amore | bugatti Fashion," of course! Without her emotional support, I would probably still be mixing chive-pineapple-tomato smoothies or something.

The last day before vacation is usually more stressful. Linda had to think of so many things before heading to the beach. She was a cleaner at Câline and liked the staff. But she liked even more the pleasant scents that wafted from every lab. Discarded test tubes smelled of roses, coffee, or vanilla. There were truly worse jobs.

Hunger drove her, and since all the dishes were already in the running dishwasher, she grabbed a plastic bowl from the lab. Coconut milk and a few hazelnuts for soaking. She couldn’t eat due to her workload, as a new fragrance was in production. A copy of the popular Cheirosa '62 was to be created, “the girls will love it,” the boss exclaimed enthusiastically. Sweet, salty pistachio dipped in caramel. That’s how it should smell. The creative minds were working hard.

“If I’m no longer needed, I’m heading off on vacation now,” Linda waved around.
“Only if you tell us where your trip is going,” she was answered. “To the French sun,” she winked.
The staff flinched and exchanged promising glances.
Linda had no time for interpretations. Maybe they had sniffed too long at the tonka beans. The side effects of working in a perfume lab sometimes take strange forms.

She couldn’t yet suspect that the restorative effect of her week-long vacation would vanish faster than expected.
What was that in the air? A strange note that she couldn’t identify. But it didn’t matter, as everyone was expected in the conference room to attend the presentation of the new Câline. The CEOs and managing directors of several drugstores shook hands vigorously, eagerly anticipating what would be presented. Linda caught herself recognizing dancing dollar signs in the eyes of those present.

The presentation started. “Soleil de France” appeared as the cover page in Câline’s typical glass bottle with small encased roses at the base. Very nice! The perfumers looked at Linda with a smile. Wait a minute, was she the source of inspiration? Feeling a bit puffed up, she looked forward to the first test. Could she soon call a signature scent her own?

Every step of the production was documented photographically and projected on an XXL wall.
“… and here you see the coconut milk, which was responsible for the creaminess in the top note…”
Wait a minute… Linda rubbed her eyes. Was that her cereal bowl that she had forgotten before vacation?
Her heart raced up to her throat. The images showed every detail of her breakfast, beautifully processed with all the other fragrance materials. No one seemed to know that the filled bowl had been sitting around for almost a week. She needed reassurance. This couldn’t be possible. So she quietly got up and headed to the lab. Several trash bags were already neatly lined up for her, as she had no substitute. With trembling fingers, she found what she was looking for… a strangely deformed cereal bowl. The plastic seemed to have melted. Then it hit her like a ton of bricks: She had left her breakfast on the stove.
The nausea was not only due to the rising fear of being discovered but also from the biting smell of plastic that mingled with the remnants of rotting coconut milk.

Of course, she didn’t tell anyone about it and quietly returned to the hall after this shock. It seemed that those present had fallen victim to a mass hypnosis as they passed around the pretty bottle, exclaiming “aaahs” and “ooohs” in a thick cloud of fragrance. They were throwing ideas around for clever marketing on social media. To top it all off, Linda received the first bottle as the namer. Amidst thunderous applause, all she wanted was to throw up.

So how does the French sun smell? The pyramid sounds like a dream. An alternative to Cheirosa '62? Ha, of course, I’ll buy it! YouTubers were already producing videos before the constantly sold-out fragrance even reached my drugstores. My excitement soared to unimaginable heights; I wanted it so badly. Especially at the affordable price. So what if the longevity turned out like the well-known body spray, just buy two bottles.

When I finally got to test it, I was filled with joyful anticipation of a gourmand sunscreen scent. However, the test was like belly-flopping into a swimming pool with ankle-deep water.
A harsh note runs through the top note, which unfortunately doesn’t disappear until the dry down. What is that? Fermented coconut milk? Melted plastic? Spoiled hazelnuts? I can only identify it as such. I have never smelled anything like it. Unfortunately, it’s far too piercingly intrusive to ignore. In the background, the sweet salty pistachio. The heart note already shows resemblance to "Cheirosa '62 / Brazilian Crush Cheirosa '62 | Sol de Janeiro." But the disturbing note remains. In the dry down, it really kicks in. The longevity is moderate; I would have wished it to be shorter in this case.

I couldn’t believe what I was smelling and initially thought there was a defect in my nose; so many customers can’t be wrong. Multiple tests on different days in different stores and with different testers yielded exactly the same results. It is therefore not a copy of the Cheirosa '62 body spray or the perfume "Sol Cheirosa '62 | Sol de Janeiro."

Câline, I would have loved to throw my money at you. But not for a plastic accident. I suggest a reformulation. There is potential, but next time without a melted cereal bowl with spoiled ingredients. They have no place in perfume.
At this point, best regards from Linda. She can’t help it.