I went to Helen’s house last night, and she had an immaculate bottle of vintage Eau De Metal standing there on her dresser. What a beautiful perfume. Frustratingly, because of my knee injury, I can’t go walking about my old haunts as much as I would like to, but I am nevertheless enjoying just marinating in the atmosphere of my parents’ house, my friends: the perfumes they have.
This week I find myself deeply drawn to Paco Rabanne’s Métal.
It is spring outside. Bright, something between warm and cold, and the flowers are blossoming slowly: tulips pushing through, peach blossoms already blown away by the wind.
With the sunlight, the new air, and all the freshness I feel in the atmosphere, as well as the freedom of being off work for almost three weeks (sheer heaven), I want optimism: zest, but with emotional, and aesthetic, intelligence.
Métal, a sly, forever fresh, delicious concoction, fits the bill perfectly, a scent that is not often written about for some reason, but one that I find very beautiful, and strangely not dated considering the fact that it is already 34 years old.
No: Métal is ageless. A shimmering, (dirty) angel of the disco set who constantly has one eye on the next: a laughing, exuberant, parfum savonneux: always soaped down and…
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