Ditch the trends and keep perfume simple
Have you noticed how perfumes have got all musky and complicated lately? All the toned, airbrushed and fabulous now waft by in this dark, spicy cloud whose “notes” are as impossible to identify as rap lyrics.
Judging by the deliberately obscure monikers of some of these postmodern perfumes, which hail from the likes of le Labo (which, by the way, is a division of good ol’ Estee Lauder), Byredo and Ex Nihilo — scents such as Reliquary, Rain and Wellspring — ours, however, is not to understand, but to buy into the poetic mystery of it all.
True, some of these scents themselves are quite lovely smelling, maybe as a result of their preciousness.
But there’s something about the posturing of these 21st-century elixirs — that in their heady complexity of blend or intention they are somehow “more than just fra- grance” — that leaves me unconvinced.
Hence my own little perfume rebellion. One launched against both smelling like a zinc pipe after a rainstorm in February and the larger forces of conforming nonconformity.
Never one to resist the siren call of a truly “niche” brand, I turn to either anything from the exquisite roster of scents from the still familyrun house of Hermès or a scent from the oldest independent family perfumer in the world.
Founded in 1730, Floris is still the only appointed perfumer to her Majesty the Queen. Many of its fragrances are ancient blends: Bouquet de la Reine was created for Queen Victoria on the occasion of her marriage to Prince Albert in 1840.
Unlike other rediscovered heritage brands, you cannot find Floris everywhere: its exquisite, doll-like Jermyn street flagship (in the rear of which the scents were made up until the late ’80s, when Floris enlisted Princess Diana to open its small factory in Devon) is only just now being renovated.
My chosen Floris scent is one called Cefiro, from the Spanish word zephyr, meaning a gentle breeze, and it embodies that in a blend of citrus punctuated with bergamot and a fresh, floral heart of jasmine with a clean, woody base. In short, it smells just like perfume.
The effect is lovely and low impact rather than puzzling; people do not stop me on the street begging to know what scent I am wearing and I am perfectly OK with that.
Floris is little known despite its venerable history. It’s hard to get your hands on a bottle unless you are travelling to London. But most of all, it doesn’t aspire to be anything other than a pleasant-smelling perfume, and that in itself I find delightful every single time I spray it on.
(50 mL. Eau de Toilette, £55 ($90), florislondon.com) Karen von Hahn is a Torontobased writer, trend observer and style commentator. Contact her at kvh@karenvonhahn.com.