If you read about perfume long enough, you will notice different names keep popping up as 'reference' chypres, orientals or florals. Being the lemming I am, many perfumes end up living with me for just this reason.
Such is the story behind Paloma Picasso.
Honestly, I never liked it, even though I have a thing for chypres. But, with the way my nose changes over time, I thought I might grow into it and understand what all the fuss is about. Unfortunately, the fake-it-till-you-make-it approach hasn't cut it (this actually works sometimes, which is evidence of a brilliant theory, or simply pathetic).
Nevertheless, on Saturday evening, I spritzed Paloma again and sat outside on the deck, hoping to get a better handle on it outdoors. This time, the top notes were interesting, almost pleasant. Spearmint was obvious, as was leather and tar. Soon the heart notes of fresh paint, tobacco and grilled burgers emerged.
No, wait, we were grilling burgers on the deck. But still.
Later, as I was enjoying the scenery and trying to identify the basenotes of Paloma, a memory was triggered in the way that only perfume can take one back in time.
In the fall of 2008, B-man and I went to NYC to combine my attending the Sniffapalooza Fall Ball with our own adventures. (Inner Critic thinks Sniffapalooza is a stupid name and snickers every time I say it.)
We stayed across the street from Central Park in a hotel that may serve the most amazing martinis on earth. However, each time we walked outside, we were hit with the aroma of horse drawn carriages lined up against the sidewalk, waiting.
I snap out of my daydream, the basenotes revealed.
Apologies to anyone for whom Paloma Picasso is your Holy Grail - I truly wish I could love it. But on my skin, and to my nose, the drydown is a horse's ass.
Btw: Anyone attending the Fall Ball this year?