Donna Karan, Woman
I don’t usually think of vetiver as adding “greenness;” its grassy heritage tends to impose more of a texture than an actual smell: in Woman, that texture is extraordinarily refined–the sandpaper grit that always catches my attention has been worn smooth to the point that it’s just a haunting: ghostly traces outlined in smooth, smooth green.
It’s this aspect of Woman that appeals to me. It’s not dramatic. It might not revolutionize the industry. But it does what a perfume ought to, and that, in this case, is two-fold: smell good, and tell a story. It’s a brief story, more of an axiom, really, but sometimes that’s enough. It’s been enough for me, and I’ve worn Woman a lot. It says, “I’m a grown woman, and I like perfume. I don’t smell like your mother or grandmother, but mine is a smell you will remember.”
Woman smells nothing like my great love, Amouage Memoir, but it has a similar bone structure–I think of Memoir when I wear Woman, and it might just be that they’re both slightly unusual, though I suppose that Woman is generally more approachable; it is a mass-market release, after all. If Memoir is my “Queen of the World” scent, then Woman is my “Let’s Get Things Done” perfume.