Badar (Al Haramain)
Type: mukhallat
Badar is a honey-forward mukhallat that sounds more exciting than it really is. (It also looks more exciting than it is, packaged as it is in the contraband-ish form of a cigarette box). Very lightly floral, with hints of either orange or lime blossom in addition to rose, bergamot, orange, and lime, my main issue with it is that it smells more like honey tea or a whipped honey soap product than honey itself.
If nothing else, it lacks the complexity suggested by the notes list, which includes patchouli and lavender. Unfortunately, when you remove all the pissy, objectionably animalic facets of honey, you also remove all its interest. Then all we are left with is a dull, waxy amber with a side of hotel soap.
Listen, Badar is reasonably good-smelling, and it is churlish of me to expect something more of a cheap oil. But it needs far more shading and depth to be considered worthy of a place in a well-thought-out attar collection.
Basmati Rose (Sultan Pasha Attars)
Type: Mukhallat
Basmati Rose opens on the pure pyrazine twang of buttered toast, if by buttered toast we mean a jellybean flavoring. It reminds me slightly of the sweet, doughy oddness of Jeux de Peau (Serge Lutens), sluiced with a medicinal saffron that smells like an iodine-soaked leather belt dropped into a bowl of batter, staining it a violent red-gold. The effect is startling – something über fake against something über natural.
Admittedly, I have become over-sensitized to a certain molecule used in perfumery to mimic the scent of toasted, buttery grains, be it basmati rice or toast. Therefore, while I live in hope of smelling a fragrance that faithfully recreates the steamy smell of basmati, what I invariably smell is a mixture of burnt sugar, movie butter popcorn, and the faint but unmistakable whiff of sweaty socks. And Basmati Rose, while certainly a step above anything I have ever smelled with this particular accord, is no exception.
In the drydown, however, a velvety rose note emerges, dipped in a bowl of marshmallowy saffron custard (very Safran Troublant) and crusted with glittering resins and spice (very Aramis Calligraphy Rose). The drydown also features one of purest Mysore sandalwood accords I have smelled outside of pure Mysore sandalwood itself, which – ironically – manages to smell more genuinely buttery and toasty than the Basmati rice accord itself. The second act of Basmati Rose is, and I do not say this lightly, pure heaven. If I could get that bit on its own, I would invest in a jeroboam.
Beige (Universal Perfumes & Cosmetics)
Type: dupe, concentrated perfume oil
This dupe for Chanel Beige smells very little like Beige, but in an unusual turn of events, I enjoy wearing it more than the original. Let me explain.
Beige is a perfume that has been through so many tweaks and reformulations – even before it was turned into an eau de parfum in 2016 – that it is difficult to say with any certainty what it was ever supposed to smell like. Some iterations prior to the 2016 concentration changeover had a weird, scratchy aromachemical note, and some did not. The 2016 EDP is markedly different to the EDT, with a thickly powdered note that was not there before.
In essence, Beige is a creamy, indistinct mass of white flowers with a luxuriously soapy texture. It smells either – depending on who you ask – like the world’s most expensive shampoo or a honeyed tropical floral of no great distinction (both opinions being equally valid).
The dupe is a different animal entirely. It skips the peachy frangipani, honey, and vanilla of the original, and focuses instead on a creamy vetiver-vanilla double act, enlivened with a woody hawthorn note. The original has hawthorn too, but never leans too heavily on it. The soft, bitter suede tonality the hawthorn lends is beautiful, and because it also restrains the frothy soapiness of the white florals, it smells less like hotel soap than the original.
In short, don’t buy the dupe expecting the original. But if you think that you might enjoy the creamy, sueded bite of the dupe on its own terms, then this is worth a shot. While the dupe is (technically speaking) not a great dupe of the original perfume, it is a thoroughly enjoyable perfume in its own right.
Black Violets for Women (Perfume Parlour)
Type: dupe, concentrated perfume oil
Dupe for: Tom Ford Black Violet
This runs admirably close to the original, which is long discontinued. Black Violet featured a dark violet note over a mossy base that recalled the soapy sharpness of traditional men’s barbershop fougères and aftershaves.
The dupe nails all of the important notes in the central accord, down to the slightly bitter oakmoss, the dusty violets, and the tart bergamot overlay. The original is moody, astringent, and rather aggressive – and so is the dupe. Despite the floral name, both the original and dupe are very masculine-leaning.
Blu (Bruno Acampora)
Type: concentrated perfume oil
Blu is, in many ways, the tuberose counterpart to Jasmin T by the same house – pungent, greenish, and with a starting-line klaxon of fuel so potent it could power a small Toyota. The tuberose that explodes in the topnotes is possibly the purest expression of the flower that one can smell outside of an expensive absolute. Sadly, the purity of the topnote is marred by a stale dairy note, like milk fat coagulating on the floor of a hot milking shed.
A bullishly fruity, sharp ylang accentuates the same attributes present in the tuberose, thus failing to restrain its tubular sister in any meaningful way. And maybe that is the point of this perfume. Many tuberose-focused perfume compositions seek to subdue the tuberose note in some way, but Blu seems to recognize that it is the kind of flower you just can’t put manners on.
Blu is sexy, coarse, and messy beyond belief. It is exclusively for people who are unafraid of the quasi-ugly pungency of white flowers when presented in their natural form.
Blue 4 Orchid (Aloes of Ish)
Type: mukhallat
Blue 4 Orchid is a floral mukhallat that mixes the chocolate-and-vanilla richness of orchid with an aquatic note (possibly blue lotus, given the name of the oil). The similarity to Tom Ford’s Black Orchid is striking, with a few key differences in texture. Whereas Black Orchid is dense and velvety, Blue 4 Orchid is salty, airy, and aqueous in nature. That distinctive dissonance between rich-creamy truffle and cucumberish freshness, however, is the same.
For the price, it would be difficult to recommend the Tom Ford over Blue 4 Orchid. Do keep in mind that oils wear more closely to the body and have less projection. For those seeking maximum impact at twenty paces, this might not cut it. But for those who liked Black Orchid but found it unbearably loud, Blue 4 Orchid is an alternative worth bearing in mind.
Bluebird (Olivine Atelier)
Type: concentrated perfume oil
Bluebird is a classic ‘florist’s fridge’ floral, opening with the intoxicatingly green whoosh of scent that greets you when you walk into a flower shop. It is generally hard to maintain the aroma of snapped stems, pollen, plant sap, and dewy petals without devolving into a chemical soup further on down the line. To its credit, Bluebird manages to keep its botanical mimicry fresh and natural for much longer than is the norm.
No one flower stands out, except for perhaps the salty greenness of lily and a soapy muguet. There is also a touch of the famous Olivine gardenia in the drydown. For much of the first half of the scent’s life, the texture is moist, cold, and crunchy. Super satisfying. But when a clean white musk moves in to keep the muguet going a little longer, Bluebird begins its inexorable slide into the scent of those prim, rose-shaped guest soaps that always look better than they perform.
This freshly-scrubbed aspect seems to be a necessary evil in scents with this ‘botanical’ type of opening. I have experienced it in everything from Diorissimo and Lys Méditerranée to Carnal Flower. Certain green floral notes are just too delicate or too juicy to sustain themselves without something sturdy holding them up – and unfortunately, that something is almost always white musk.
In Bluebird, the trajectory from the rich dewiness of the start to the soapy, almost air-freshener is no less disappointing for being expected. However, if you are able to lower your expectations to account for the ‘indie oil’-ness of Bluebird, it stands as one of the better examples of its kind.
Bridget Bishop (Sixteen92)
Type: concentrated perfume oil
Company description: Night-blooming flowers, belladonna, bergamot peel, resinous oudh, nutmeg, ambroxan, scarlet musk
Bridget Bishop is a green floral that accentuates the tomato leaf stem bitterness of deadly nightshade by tying it to a parched talcum powder note that hangs it out to dry even further. More than a little soapy, the scent’s cool freshness makes for a welcome respite from the muggy heat of summer.
The Ambroxan in the base adds a dry, salty crackle that makes me think – briefly – of aftershave. However, the woody dryness is not over-done. It merely hovers in the background, supporting the crisp floral notes and buckets of airy green starch. This is not a particularly feminine scent. A man who wears Chanel No. 19 can surely wear Bridget Bishop.
Burning Roses (Alkemia)
Type: concentrated perfume oil
Company description: A hypnotic immolation of dark red roses and burning divinatory incenses – smoldering frankincense, champa, labdanum. Mesmerizing, deep, sensual.
Burning Roses opens with a jammy red rose note that quickly turns sour and old-fashioned, a trajectory very much in line with the character of Bulgarian rose oil itself. But before one can stress out too much about this unfortunate development, the perfume takes a detour into rose-scented incense sticks.
If you have ever smelled these rose-scented joss sticks sold in headshops, then you know the rest of the story here. It is a powdery, sweet, and rosy smell – exotic in a vague ‘I bottled the collected smells of a head shop’ kind of way. Thoroughly enjoyable, if you enjoy that sort of thing. Which I do.
Cardamom Rose Sugar (Solstice Scents)
Type: concentrated perfume oil
Company description: Brown Sugar, Cardamom EO, Moroccan Rose and Bulgarian Rose
Cardamom Rose Sugar is a coffee gourmand crossed with an Indian dessert that, oddly, is advertized as neither. It opens with a mouthwateringly tart Bulgarian rose, which later fleshes out into a jammier Turkish rose, with both syrupy and fresh-lemony nuances. These gutsy rose accords are draped over a wooden frame of brown sugar, maple syrup, and caramelized tarte tatin notes. I suspect the use of immortelle because, apart from the brown sugar and maple accords, the resinous coffee facet is characteristic of this material.
The cardamom note is excellent – green and zesty, but also rich and exotic. Combined with the coffee and maple sugar notes, an image of Arabs drinking coffee with cardamom comes to mind, a sugar cube poised delicately between their teeth to sweeten every sip.
Cardamom Rose Sugar smells very natural and rich, and it lasts forever on the skin. Towards the end, it flattens out slightly into a simple cardamom sugar note that, while pleasant, fails to equal the complexity of its first hour or two. Still, I recommend it highly to fans of Indian desserts such as gulab jamun, kulfi, and so on.
Champaca Regale (Sultan Pasha Attars)
Type: mukhallat
First, what does champaca smell like? This yellow, frankly odd-looking tropical flower is often said to smell rather like magnolia (they are related). But in truth, champaca smells far muskier, heavier, and fruiter than magnolia, which itself smells like full-fat cream mixed with green leaves and lemon peel. To my own nose, champaca smells a little like jasmine or even osmanthus, especially varieties that have tea leaf and apricot skin nuances. However, champaca is coarser than either jasmine or osmanthus, with a musky, suede-like finish.
Champaca has a heavy, lush smell – there is nothing attenuated or minimalistic about it. Some representations of champaca in attar perfumery are bright and shampoo-like (the derivation of the word shampoo is the Hindi word ‘champo’, meaning to massage, which comes from champa, the Sanskrit name for champaca), and some smell musky but rather unclean. To my nose, there can also be a green apple skin note.
Sultan Pasha takes an interesting approach to this (hideously expensive) floral absolute, choosing to match the complex, shifting tones of the champaca flower to the equally complex, shifting tones of oud and other precious woods. As a result, the mukhallat cycles through a series of mid-play set changes that keeps the wearer entertained all the way through.
The opening is perhaps complex to the point of being busy. I smell milk chocolate, wood, leather, fruit, and the vanillic opening salvo of the champaca, overlaid with a very alluring wood varnish note. It is immediately rich-smelling, although not particularly floral per se. Soon, the musky, fruited suede notes of champaca flower begin to emerge, and with them the aromatic smell of loose tea leaves and spicy anise.
For a quick frame of reference, Tom Ford’s Champaca Absolute lies far more in the fruity-honey-banana direction of champaca than Champaca Regale, which is smokier and woodier. In fact, it has far more in common with the floral musky suede of Donna Karan’s Signature fragrance than any champaca fragrance currently on the market (even though that scent focuses on osmanthus, not champaca).
Cheval d’Arabie (Sultan Pasha Attars)
Type: Mukhallat
Cheval d’Arabie is a pungent, varnishy rose-oud with a camphor note that adds a beguilingly toothpaste-like brightness just where you are not expecting it. As in the similarly-themed Juriah, the peppery tartness of Taifi rose against hot, dirty Hindi oud creates an interplay between light and dark, sweet and sour, rosy and leathery that comes straight from the 200-year-old playbook of rose-oud mukhallats.
But Cheval d’Arabie is distinguished by that minty-Grappa kick, as well as by a civety narcissus that is half hay, half piss. In the drydown, it is indeed quite ‘horsey’, but then again, all natural Hindi-based scents have a certain eau de stable about them. Note that despite the animal billing, this is a supremely elegant affair. Though they are completely different scents, Cheval d’Arabie walks the same soft, smeary line between horseshit, Imperial Leather soap, and flowers as Chanel’s Cuir de Russie. And I think that, coming from a mukhallat maker that seemingly knocks everything up in his back room, is an incredible feat indeed.
Chinese Town (BND9) For Women (Perfume Parlour)
Type: dupe, concentrated perfume oil
Dupe for: Bond No. 9 Chinatown
The basic scent profile is there – a slutty slurry of bubblegum, tuberose, coconut, peach syrup, cardamom, with a backbone of powdery woods that steadies the ship somewhat. The atmosphere of flirtatious girlishness translates well, but I suspect that the formula for Chinatown is cheap and cheerful to begin with, so the dupe doesn’t have to work too hard to ape its vibe.
There are a few key differences, though. For most, these will be either deal breakers or an additional incentive to buy. First, the luxuriously creamy vanilla and gardenia tandem of the original is missing in action, so if that is the bit of Chinatown you love, then do not look to this quarter for satisfaction.
Second, the woody-incensey accord of the original is differently pitched in the dupe. Here we have the dust of a cathedral compared to the waxy, snuffed-out candle feel of the original. Third, there is a tinned-fruit sharpness to the peach note in the dupe that is not as obvious in the original. The dupe is also missing the slight chypre backbone of the original. However, in general, Chinese Town is a passable dupe, and given its lighter texture, might be easier to pull off in hot weather.
Chypre Chrysanthème (Sultan Pasha Attars)
Type: Mukhallat
Chypre Chrysanthème is a serious, dark-green chypre that is far more muscular and aromatic than it is floral. Opening with the bitter slap of freshly-pruned box, I was surprised to learn that it is lemon verbena and not galbanum. A dusty labdanum undertow eventually sucks the scent into the shadows, giving everything a slightly animalic dimension, like the feral scent of a freshly killed fox in a hedgerow.
To be perfectly frank, I wouldn’t know a chrysanthemum if it came up and bit me in the ass. My only clue comes from the Internet, where one source tells me it smells ‘warm, full-bodied, and floral’ and the other simply ‘green’. Certainly, from my only other experience with chrysanthemum (De Profundis by Serge Lutens), I would say that the latter fits better.
But compared to the Lutens scent, Chypre Chrysanthème is all wood and pith and dusty oakmoss green, rather than floral green. It has that resinous, catch-in-your-throat quality of good Omani frankincense or freshly-stripped cedar. If you loved Encens Chypre but want something that leans a little woodier (and dustier), then Chypre Chrysanthème might scratch that itch.
Cilema (Henry Jacques)
Type: concentrated perfume oil
It is unusual to find such a full-bodied carnation note in modern perfumery. The EU, on the advice of IFRA, has decided that eugenol – the primary component of clove, nutmeg, and bay leaf oils used to construct carnation notes in perfumery – is far too hepatotoxic to allow in anything other than minute amounts.
This has eroded the role of eugenol in perfumery, ripping traditionally carnation-heavy compositions out at the seams. It is one of the reasons why Opium no longer smells like Opium, for example. Eugenol restrictions have also quite badly affected the older Carons such as Bellodgia and Tabac Blond. Compare modern Opium or Bellodgia to their vintage counterparts, and the effects of this Eugenocide becomes painfully clear.
That is why it is such a pleasure to smell something like Cilema. I don’t know how this scent has evaded the ‘elf and safety’ cabals, but its spicy carnation note smells like a true 3D rendering of carnation with all its hot and cold nuances intact. Cilema is a time machine. Smell it and weep.
Claire de Lune (Sultan Pasha Attars)
Type: mukhallat
Clair de Lune is a bright, luscious jasmine with a leafy note that cuts the richness like a hot knife through butter. The jasmine used here smells like cold jasmine tea and spa water yet retains some of the flower’s essential creaminess. Some of the stranger facets of Sambac jasmine are also on display – overripe, gassy bananas, plastic, benzene, leather, and grape-flavored bubblegum. But these facets have been carefully handled to allow the creamy purity of the jasmine blooms to shine through. Clair de Lune achieves the same balancing act between clean and dirty as Diptyque’s Olène. Sensual and feminine, this one is for romantic white-florals lovers everywhere.
However, wait! The jasmine is only act one of this show. In the second act, which occurs when one’s senses are sated on the jasmine, a beautiful gardenia appears on stage to revive interest. The gardenia smells like a nubbin of savory cream cheese strained through hazelnut shells, tainted with the damp earthiness of wet mushrooms so characteristic of real gardenia. Truly beautiful.
Claritude (Mellifluence)
Type: mukhallat
Claritude pairs a bright, juicy pear note with gentle floral accents such as lily and tansy, sheathed in white, fluffy musks. The pear note is sharp and vaporous at first, but quickly softens when it meets the broom-like notes of hay, immortelle, and saffron, the combination of which gives the scent a nice au plein air freshness.
You might take one look at the oud listed for Claritude and think, Christ, that could take a turn for the dark. But no, this is a scent of sun-lit meadows and flower banks. The Kalimantan oud adds a note of fresh, creamy mint that anchors the florals but doesn’t drag them under. Golden, sweet, and foamy, Claritude is smile in mukhallat form. For anyone seeking something fresh, lively, and floral for the office, or even as a first tentative foray into oil-based perfumery, Claritude might be just the ticket.
Coco (Universal Perfumes & Cosmetics)
Type: dupe, concentrated perfume oil
Dupe for: Chanel Coco
No. Just…no. The real Chanel Coco, both in the current eau de parfum format and the vintage parfum, is a three-dimensional object compared to the pencil sketch of the dupe. The real thing is infinitely warmer, sweeter, and more thickly ambered – orange pomander and rose petals preserved in dark honey and balsam and spread over a bed of powdery carnation and sandalwood. The dupe nails the bittersweet balsamic feel but misses the buttery, full texture of the underlying layers of amber and wood. Also, the rose is thinly drawn and the spices slight. It feels watered down, not to mention dumbed down.
Admittedly, the current eau de parfum is not as good as the vintage perfume, lacking that crucial oakmoss inkiness to balance out the sweetness. But even the current EDP is a hundred times more complex than the dupe. The dupe is like a child’s drawing a picture of a racehorse – a few of the high points are right (the nostrils, the mane, and the hooves) but the rest is a reduction of complex musculature to a few jagged lines. In addition to the general flatness of the impression, the dupe has a citric soapiness that borders on unpleasant and may ruin any positive association you have with the original.
If you must have Coco, then buy Coco. A small bottle of the current EDT or EDP is all you need. Though not cheap, compared to what you will pay for the dupe in tears of rage or disappointment, it represents real value for money.
Colour Purple (Sultan Pasha Attars)
Type: mukhallat
I am not a fan of this mukhallat, but then again, since it has been discontinued, maybe I am not the only one. To my nose, it focuses on all the aspects of jasmine that I dislike, such as a tendency towards bubblegum-like sweetness at the top, and an unfortunate soapy, metallic sourness in the base. It does indeed smell like the color purple, but not in a good way.
Cuir au Miel Rose (Sultan Pasha Attars)
Type: mukhallat
Rose, as a note on its own, is beautiful but rather boring. Even the purest of rose oils can smell like lemon, green leaves, soap, and something only vaguely rosy after that first intense whoosh of rose dissipates. Cuir au Miel demonstrates something I have always suspected, which is that all rose oils smell infinitely more beautiful when placed in a composition with other materials. In this mukhallat, the rose reaches its full potential only when the other materials frame it just so. Set within the honeyed leather of the original Cuir au Miel, this rose glows like a red lamp through a fog.
On the skin, the rose note is quixotic, cycling rapidly through several stages on the skin – wine, truffles, black pepper, chili oil, cinnamon, jam, and lemon leaf. This galvanizes all the other notes too, lifting the brown, somewhat dour oud to a new, fruity brightness, for an effect akin to switching the light on in a dark room. It charges the honeyed leather with a rose chypre-like electricity and vibrancy. In its rich oiliness and smokiness, something of the rose in Une Rose Chyprée by Andy Tauer and Aramis Calligraphy Rose lurks.
Important to say, too, that it remains beautifully rosy. The rose glows on, undimmed by amber or woods. For me, not only a sublime iteration on the original but an elevation of all the materials involved.
Dentelle au Coeur (Henry Jacques)
Type: concentrated perfume oil
A dense and vegetal tuberose, with a touch of that stewed-celery-and-Listerine oddness of Tubéreuse Criminelle (Serge Lutens). I like it very much because it represents the rubbery headiness of the flower without making me feel over-sated. If we plot a tuberose storyline with Fracas, the buttery bubblegum of nightmarish laboratories, at one end, and Carnal Flower, nature’s own bitter, green, and musky riposte, at the other – then Dentelle au Coeur lies squarely in the middle.
The task might sound simple (‘do a tuberose’), but in all matters tuberose, steering things to that happy middle ground is a question of confidence and surety of hand. Dentelle au Coeur has both the almost meaty creaminess of Fracas and the limpid naturalism of Carnal Flower. The baby bear’s tuberose? Perhaps. Mind you, you really have to love tuberose to pay the almost $600 for 15mls that this goes for.
De Vaara (Mellifluence)
Type: mukhallat
De Vaara is a clever re-working of tuberose, a flower so unctuously buttery that it is difficult to use in a composition without its cloying qualities riding roughshod over the other notes. Here the tuberose has been framed in a tight cage of earthy, pungent vetiver and oud, effectively serving to tamp down the exuberance of the tuberose. Hints of bitter orange, minty camphor, and saffron add a husky gruffness, rendering it suitable for wear by either sex.
But what really dominates is that rich, grassy vetiver and tuberose pairing. The feel is of a forest with tuberose blooms shooting up shyly from the dark, loamy soil. Thoroughly natural and almost outdoorsy in feel, this is one tuberose blend I would feel comfortable wearing with a t-shirt and jeans rather than with the full-length gown tuberose sometimes calls for. One of my very favorites from Mellifluence.
Dee-Or Addict for Women (Perfume Parlour)
Type: dupe, concentrated perfume oil
Dupe for: Dior Addict
This is a good dupe for the original, from the crisp greenery in the topnotes to the sultry orange blossom, jasmine, and bourbon vanilla heart. Prior to retrying it about a year after my initial test, I had written something to the effect of the dupe turning the clock back on a series of disastrous reformulations of the real Dior Addict, restoring it to the pre-2014 version. However, some of the more floral oil dupes do not improve with age, and unfortunately, this is one such example. Use these dupe oils quickly because even storing them away from sunlight will not stop their eventual deterioration.
The dupe smells a bit sleazy in true walk-of-shame fashion, but then, so does the original. A sexy and degraded cigarette-vanilla-white floral, this Dior Addict dupe is good enough that you can get away with not shelling out full retail price for the original. However, my advice is to buy in tiny amounts and use it up quickly.
Dorilene (Henry Jacques)
Type: concentrated perfume oil
Dorilene opens with a muguet note so sharp and authentically-rendered that it floors me, flooding my synapses with flashes of green and white. I wonder if the muguet is real, because it has none of the toilet freshener qualities of the reconstructed muguet note in modern Diorissimo. Speaking of the Big D – yes, there is a likeness, but only briefly and only at the top.
The synesthesiastic muguet opening is soon subsumed by a buttery, yellow tropical floral bouquet, led by a saber-toothed note that my nose identifies as tuberose, but I am reliably informed is ylang. A phantasmal gardenia note drenches the composition in its candied, salty cream cheese nuance. No gardenia listed, of course, but trust me on this one. If you like the pungent, Indian-style cornucopia of oily yellow flowers that is Strangelove NYC’s lostinflowers, it is likely that you will also take to this dirty-sexy-money take on the pristine white blouse of muguet.
About Me: A two-time Jasmine Award winner for excellence in perfume journalism, I write a blog (this one!) and have authored many guides, articles, and interviews for Basenotes. (My day-to-day work is in the scientific research for development world). Thanks to the generosity of friends and acquaintances in the perfume business, I have been privileged enough to smell the raw materials that go into perfumes and learn about the role they play in both Western and Eastern perfumery. Artisans have sent vials of the most precious materials on earth such as ambergris, deer musk, and oud. But I have also spent thousands of my own money, buying oud oils directly from artisans and tons of dodgy (and possibly illegal) stuff on eBay. In the reviews sections, I will always tell you where my sample came from and whether I paid for it or not.
Source of samples: I purchased samples from Al Haramain, Universal Perfumes and Cosmetics, the Perfume Parlour, Bruno Acampora, Olivine Atelier, Sixteen92, Alkemia, Solstice Scents, and Mellifluence. The samples from Sultan Pasha were sent to me free of charge by the brand. The samples from Henry Jacques and Aloes of Ish were from friends or Basenotes sample passes.
Note on monetization: My blog is not monetized. But if you’d like to support my work or show appreciation for any of the content I put out, you can always buy me a coffee using the little buymeacoffee button. Thank you!
Cover Image: Custom-designed by Jim Morgan.
