It’s not something I usually do. Only on certain nights, when I need an extra boost, or have had a tough day, do I indulge in such fragrant indulgence. My gateway into this world of naughty nose-tickling was a bottle of Hermes, used on an evening following a steamy but rainy summer day. It was so exquisite, I sprayed a little on before going to bed one night. It wasn’t to entice or impress, it wasn’t to turn on or turn out – it was a simple act of solitary enjoyment, a self-celebratory act of pampering that, contrary to wide-held belief, I don’t often allow myself. (This blog is a repository of all the times that I do, so it may seem that way.)
The other night, after a weekend of Easter activities and family gatherings, I wanted to mark the occasion and extend the moment a bit, so I looked through my collection of Tom Ford Private Blend samples and dabbed a little ‘Black Violet’ on my wrists. It’s a fragrance I wouldn’t purchase or request in a full bottle – far too sweet for everyday use, and not really my style  – but perfect for a special spring night. Remembering the joy Andy and I found in our family was a special-enough moment to merit Mr. Ford’s handiwork, and the vision of great swaths of sweet violets in sun-dappled light sent me off to a dreamy slumber.
As with most of the Private Blends, the floral aspect is imbued with a darker edge, something a little sexier and more mysterious than the delicate violet would deign to reveal on her own. Such shyness, when removed, is an integral part of its eventual enjoyment. The most flagrant exhibitionists are only successful when aware of the anti-thesis of their showmanship.
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