Found On Road Dead

It’s come to this: I can’t stand Tom Ford.

I’ve tried. Truly, I have. The names – Black Orchid, White Patchouli – seem right in my wheelhouse. And the descriptions all evoke a spicy exoticism that is also in my wheelhouse. But reality, my friends, is something much different.

Last week, I sampled a spritz of White Patchouli. I normally avoid anything with “Patchouli” in the title because, well. Hippies. But I do actually like the scent quite a lot as long as it’s well blended. Patchouli can pique other aromatics, like ylang ylang or cardamom. It can end up something divine. White Patchouli, though? Nope.

The initial blast was acrid and sharp. I immediately regretted committing it to my wrist. But then, it settled down and a rosy sweetness came out and smoothed out the rough edges. Sadly, this did not last long at all – the astringency returned and with a vengeance. It smelled like old women in a nursing home – antiseptic and overblown. Mleck. I ended up with a headache, and worse, it’s stuck on the cuff of a coat regardless of how many other scents I wear.

So? Lesson learned. Stay away from Tom Ford, and probably hippies too. Because this was much less of the easy-breezy-boho than the cooped-up-in-a-VW-van-for-way-too-long.


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