Oh, Pilar. Oh, Lucy. Did someone watch "Clueless" a few times too many in college? Because -- a far cry from the suave sophistication of my divine Different Co. -- your bottles are offensive to my eye, what with the twee silk flowers and absolutely stupid fuzzy boa-thing twined about the bottleneck. I can only imagine the poof of feathery crap gets kind of manky halfway through the bottle, no? Sticky and greasy and horrible-smelling? Isn't it bad, Pilar and Lucy, that I am thinking all of this about your product on sight alone?
I wanted to try this line because of the names of the perfumes, which are insane. I realised they were foody scents (and am currently avoiding "to twirl all girly" because atrocious grammar AND threatened ubergirliness is just too much), so I gave this one a go on a non-work day when I'd be able to wash it off if it was really repellant.
When I was a teenager, I had an oil burner, one of those little dishes you put above a tealight and fill with perfumed oil. I believe the only reason my mother allowed me to have the thing was to stop me from burning incense in my room (which, given my forgetfulness, would have been a conflagration in the making). This perfume smells EXACTLY like the vanilla oil the moment I lit the tealight -- weirdly sharp and sugary and thick and vanilla vanilla vanilla. Oil burners are meant to perfume an entire room, though, and this scent is like having your nose right next to the saucer, which gives it an artificial, chemical rasp. As the day's worn on, it's morphed into homemade vanilla custard: creamy and buttery and eggy, but with a touch too much vanilla essence. Or maybe a tub of Betty Crocker vanilla frosting, complete with preservative edge. Altogether, it makes me resent the froufrou name and ditzy bottle even more.
Verdict: The stars are made of egg and vanilla and powered by tealights, and the friction's probably not friction at all, just residual teenage angst.
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