Petrolhead

I wish I could love Gasoleather's petrol note, but I've always found it cloying. Now petrolhead is straight-up Grand Prix! It hits with that unmistakable petrol and asphalt accord. There’s a photorealism to it that reminds me less of a perfume and more of standing next to a hot diesel engine after a long midwestern summer drive. It reminds me of family summer vacations in the seventies and eighties. This raw, mechanical opening softens just enough after 30 minutes, revealing a subtle green and slightly resinous backbone that rounds out the composition without ever domesticating it. It's gritty. It's urban. It's rural. Most importantly, it's subversive. And that’s exactly why I love it. It feels like wearing an idea rather than a fragrance. It does settle down close to the skin which is probably for the best. I’ll admit, it’s probably one of my husband's biggest “complaint getters” in my rotation. But that’s part of the appeal. Petrolhead doesn’t ask for approval, as much as it demands a reaction. And in a perfume world saturated with safe, vanilla fig peach buttered pastry-forward compositions, that kind of audacity is refreshing.