Miss Dior is one of *those* scents for me. Part of the love is nostalgic and sentimental, reminding me of my much-missed father, who thought the name made it an ideal gift for a fifteen year old girl, and of my own rebellious self who knew damn well it wasn’t. But I knew I wanted to grow into it.

It reminds me of being all the clichés of growing up in angsty novels: of wearing vintage clothes and smoking unfiltered gitanes, and walking home through pre-dawn pre-hangover cities, of reading everything but the syllabus in the university library, of awkward first days in new jobs, of solo travel, and heartbreak.

But even without a mass of time-blurred stories, it still just smells bloody gorgeous. That unapologetic rasp and leathery, mossy depth that grounds the floral heights as perfectly and as obnoxiously as balancing a fabulous frock with big fuckoff stompy boots.

originally posted 8 March 2019