“Mmmmm, oooooooh, my!” ...is all I can think, again and again every time I smell Dior Homme. How can something be so beautiful? This perfume has cast a spell on me: I am ready to make the wildly unrealistic proclamation that this is the classiest male fragrance I have ever smelled, at the very least among the non-niche offerings. Several weekends in a row now, I’ve found myself in front of the admittedly limited (at least in comparison to the ones showcasing female fragrances) shelves of male fragrances at my local Douglas, testing male scents with my partner to find the perfect one for him. He is leaning towards Prada. As for me...there is no question: no matter how much I like what he is testing at the moment, the instant he puts Dior Homme on his skin I am ready to tell the world that I’ve found genius in a bottle. The rest simply seem to pale in comparison: once Dior Homme makes an appearance, the rest suddenly appear cheaper, lacking. It has one thing in such abundance, the rest seem to have none at all when put side by side. That thing, is class. The iris starts out buttery, almost solid, I want to take it all in, devour it. I do not get tired of inhaling it, I do not find myself wanting to take a step back to enjoy the scent from a distance...No, I want to stay there, nose pressed against the skin, sniffing wildly like an animal, lest I miss a precious molecule that might fly off unnoticed. Re-reading this last sentence I realize these are words I’d usually reserve for something intensely musky, that never fails to awaken a primal sexual desire... But Dior Homme isn’t even remotely dirty, nor does it try to be suggestive.
It smells brave and lonely, hardy and fragile at once, like the edge of winter. The iris soon goes from buttery to strangely metallic: the sound effect of a well-whetted blade being drawn, a blade so sharp it would push into flesh with an ease that would ensure the victim felt no pain until it was far too late. The choice of words is not casual: there is an element of danger in this otherwise calm, collected...perhaps even calculated scent. Something of a breath, a last warm sigh amidst the wintry chill. Then everything softens with a quite unexpected sweetness – a thawed heart that manages to beat again, slowly, like a clock that counts every precious moment. Smelling it on the skin of a loved one, I get the irrepressible urge to cuddle, feeling rather protective. Smelling it on my own skin, this sudden, almost illusory warmth, speaks of cable knit sweaters and sheepskin lined boots. Each time this gorgeous scent enters another stage, I can’t help but feel a pang of regret, which is soon replaced by gladness, for I do enjoy everything it has to offer. The drydown is not an exception... I can’t help but feel disappointed as the already quiet scent loses intensity, as though dispersed in the winds. Yet soon I settle in, once again interested, once again intrigued. Readily, I take in its powdery feel, dry and woody, like a scratched bourbon vanilla pod. The merest hint of leather keeps my senses entranced, dispelling any thoughts that a powdery finish might veer into the realm of the mundane. To me, this is a masterpiece. Images: www.100aromatov.ru and www.imageafter.com
