Pierre Cardin pour Monsieur

Pierre Cardin pour Monsieur Manly Cologne
Gre­co-Roman wrestler’s loin­cloth dipped in sour milk

I imme­di­ate­ly inhale the pow­dery, intru­sive pong of scent­ed hem­or­rhoid cream, deodor­iz­ing balm for intractable leg ulcers, or Gre­co-Roman wrestler’s loin­cloth dipped in sour milk.

I pic­ture a minc­ing Regency dandy giv­ing his wig an extra dose of pow­der as an alter­na­tive to the month­ly bath.

I am remind­ed of the aerosol cans moth­ers-in-law leave on the lava­to­ry cis­tern to allow their din­ner guests to cov­er what­so­ev­er tracks they may oth­er­wise have left.

I recall the stuff the bar­ber soaks the comb in, between customers.

If I had to pick out a sin­gle fea­ture of the over­all aro­ma as being the most offen­sive, I think it would be Gera­ni­um-Laven­der accord, which is per­fect­ly titred so that the beau­ty of nei­ther note can be dis­cerned, but the com­bined chord is loud, intru­sive, and ugly, like the Sander­sons from Pough­keep­sie arriv­ing at your barbecue.

I sus­pect that the ‘nose’ (if I may hes­i­tant­ly attribute such an organ to the cre­ator of this trav­es­ty) was aim­ing at a fougere struc­ture: the laven­der, berg­amot, moss, lab­danum (cit­ed as amber), and coumarin (cit­ed as ton­ka) in the pyra­mid would cer­tain­ly sug­gest this text-book inten­tion. How­ev­er, none of these notes meld in the heart of the fra­grance. The colours sep­a­rate out, as if print­ed with a mis­aligned cartridge.

In the dry-down, things only get worse. After 6 hours, I am dogged by a curly-sand­wich stale, wed­ding-singer flat, wilt­ed funer­al flower, chew­ing-gum-on-the-pave­ment, poly­ester-shirt­ed traf­fic-war­den, geist.

No.

Pierre Cardin pour Mon­sieur Review