False Pretenses: Dior Homme

I had read that Dior Homme was based on iris, so naturally I had no interest in it: the iris and I do not get along very well. Since I had a miniature of it, though (I had bought a set of minis at Gatwick Airport a couple of years ago), it was inevitable that I was going to try the stuff sooner or later. When I finally did, I was blown away.

Dior Homme starts out the way most scents would be happy to end up: rich, warm, spicy, luscious. There's a hint of freshness and another of lavender, but mostly it's warm and masculine, expensive-smelling and extraordinarily good.

I love it for about ten minutes. Then I start to get sick of it: isn't it getting a little too sweet, too thick? What's that cloying note that just appeared?

That, it turns out, is the iris creeping in, and when it arrives, it's game over for me, because the iris dominates everything. There's literally nothing but iris in the middle, and it's kind of horrifying. There's probably an end in sight — there must be base notes of some sort — but I will never know, because I don't last that long: I have to get it off my skin before they ever show.

The bottle, at least, is splendid, a massive, imposing block of glass stabbed through the heart with a silver tube.

As I seem to have to keep saying in the name of fairness whenever irises raise their bearded heads: if you like iris, then you will probably like this, but keep it well away from me, please.