Some perfumes seem to have been created with the explicit intention of making the wearer rise above, of making him or her feel unarguably superior. And iris, that olfactory epitome of flowered, powdered elegance, would seem to be the obvious choice for the person wanting to distance themselves, with an immaculately selected scent, from the addled, oversugared, crowd.
La Pausa (named after the iris-filled gardens at the summer estate at Roquebrune Cap Martin on the French Riviera, where Coco Chanel, that unstoppable engine of taste, talent and desperate, angry desire to put her shameful lower class origins behind her, entertained the who’s who of society) embodies this ideal perfectly. If any perfume smells supercilious, of a person ready to assume glassy, entitled airs of betterment, it is surely this.
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