It was during my search for the perfect violet two years ago that I met Dans Tes Bras and the Frederic Malle Editions de Parfums, of which I am a devotee.
Dans Tes Bras did not have a promising opening to match its affectionate name and we almost gave up on the relationship from there. It started out chilly and metallic, nothing like the fresh sweet violets of Annick Goutal's La Violette or the Ophelia-like Apres L'ondee, it seemed more a relative to the hyper green Les Nez's Unicorn Spell and the astral violet Stephen Jones by Comme des Garcons. "It's Maurice Roucel," I said to myself and kept faith even though this was clearly not going to be Guerlain's pouting candied violet Insolence Eau de Parfum.
So Dans Tes Bras stepped in from the icy cold, letting in the arctic wind that sent me into a recoil. Sensing my distress, he chased the chilly elements out and closed the door of our mountain home, made of rough hewn logs and stone with walls of leaded glass. I jumped up for a cuddle, happy that he was home and stayed in his arms for a long moment, breathing in the combination of my favourite slightly powdery sweet violet perfume and the outdoorsy smell of musk and woods rising from his skin heated up from his morning workout outside. The smell of intimacy.
And we lived happily ever after.
Dans Tes Bras keeps close to you like a security blanket or a comforting hug and hangs around for a very long time. Like until you shower and wash your clothes. Worth at least a sample if you enjoy violets and skin musks. Clean skin. Just ride out the strange hospital 90% alcohol antiseptic opening.
