Anonymous Perfumoholics

A standup set inspired by Fragrantica reviews

I’ve spent so many hours on Fragrantica I could claim a master’s degree. Dissertation topic: “Collective Hallucination as a Method of Fragrance Evaluation.”

Fragrantica is a place where 47,000 people smelled the same thing, and 47,000 people smelled something different. One writes “pure sex in a bottle”. Another — “smells like a wet dog that rolled around in church incense”. Both gave it 4 out of 5.

But I’m not here to complain, I’m here to classify. Years of field research have allowed me to identify the key species of Fragrantica reviewer. Please love them and smell them.

1. The Super Nose

“In the opening — green cardamom (NOT black!), then — not just iris, but specifically iris pallida from Tuscany, and in the base — vetiver, but the one from the left bank of the Ganges, because the right bank smells completely different.”

The Super Nose doesn’t have a sense of smell. They have a gas chromatograph. They distinguish molecules by ear. You sniff a perfume and think “oh, nice”. They sniff it and see the full composition, the harvest location, the crop year, and the farmer’s name.

Once, a Super Nose smelled Chanel No. 5 and wrote: “I can tell they replaced aldehyde C-11 with C-12 in the March batch. Shameful”. Coco Chanel rolled in her grave. Twice. Once from outrage, once because he was right.

2. The Husband Barometer

“Sprayed before going out. Husband said: mmmm, what is that? Sprayed again — husband said: wow. Third spray — husband HUGGED ME.”

The husband on Fragrantica is not a person, he’s a seismograph, a litmus strip, a motion sensor with a feedback function.

The husband never says: “I don’t care, I can’t tell the difference, please stop spending money on perfume”. No. The Fragrantica husband is 180 pounds of pure olfactory rapture. He reacts to every spray like a golden retriever hearing a treat bag crinkle.

Sometimes I think Fragrantica has one single registered husband. And he is very, very tired.

3. The Seasonal Police

“ATTENTION. This is NOT a summer fragrance. I wore it in June, and I was UNCOMFORTABLE. Heavy, suffocating. It was made for October. MAYBE late September, if it’s evening, if it’s below 59°F”.

The Seasonal Police are people for whom wearing oud in July is a moral crime.

They have an internal chart: “sandalwood — October 1st onward, tuberose — strictly July through August, vetiver — transitional only”. They live by a fragrance equivalent of a lunar calendar. Breaking it means betraying yourself and everyone within a five-meter radius.

I once wore Shalimar in May. Later I read a review where a woman wrote: “I caught a whiff of Shalimar in a shopping mall in summer and nearly cried. Who does that”. And I realized that somewhere in the world, I brought a person to tears with a fragrance — not romantically, but disciplinarily.

4. The Reformulation Conspiracist

“Bought in 2024 — NOTHING like the 2019 version. Lasts 20 minutes, sillage is ZERO. The old formula was a MASTERPIECE. They sold their soul to IFRA.”

For the Conspiracist, every perfume house is a Bond villain secretly diluting formulas with distilled water.

The Conspiracist keeps a 2016 bottle like a holy relic. They smell it once a month, whisper “THIS is the one”, and put it back. The current release is a personal insult.

Sometimes, under a 2016 fragrance page, you find their own review from that year: “Lasts 2 hours, weak sillage. 3/5”. But nobody cares anymore. The past is perfect. The present is a betrayal.

5. The Review Novella

“November. Paris. We walked along the embankment, he was silent. I turned my head — on his scarf, the scent of last night still lived. Bergamot, a little smoke, a little us. I knew I’d never forget it. He did. The fragrance didn’t”.

This isn’t a review, more like a short story rejected by The New Yorker. The author is describing an existential crisis that accidentally happened near a bottle. You open the Acqua di Gio page and find yourself reading about a breakup at the Gare de Lyon.

And at the end: “8/10, great for summer”.

6. The Compliment Addict

“Got FOUR compliments in two hours. In the elevator, in the parking lot, in line at Lidl. And the cashier asked WHAT IS THAT.”

This person doesn’t live for fragrance. They live for reactions. Perfume for them is a social approval tool. They don’t smell — they measure conversion.

I’ve always wondered: who are these people who walk up to strangers and say “mmmm, what is that you’re wearing?” Because in an elevator, I normally just inhale and try not to breathe. Maximum — shift my elbow.

It’s possible that the Compliment Addict and the Husband Barometer are the same person. And they need to talk to a professional.

7. The Batch Code Detective

“Checked the batch: L39K02. Third run from the Compiègne factory, February. February batches are ALWAYS weaker because the warehouse ventilation works differently after Christmas”.

This person investigates cases. They have an Excel spreadsheet of batch codes, a timeline of factory relocations, and their own theory about how climate affects maceration.

They hold a bottle up to the window and say: “See, the color is slightly lighter — this isn’t 2018.” Like wine tasting, but without the pleasure.

I’m convinced that if you gave the Batch Detective a criminal case file, they’d solve it in 24 hours. But they don’t have time for that. They’re busy proving that Aventus batch 19S01 is the greatest ever produced, and god help anyone who disagrees.

8. The Fragrance Blogger

“Friends. Today I’m going to tell you about a bottle that CHANGED MY LIFE. But first — a reminder that with my promo code SILLAGE15 you get 15% off on the site, link in description”.

The fragrance blogger is a person who turned the process of “smelled it — liked it” into a content empire.

They have a Top 10 For Summer, Top 10 For Winter, Top 10 For Date Night, Top 10 For the Office, Top 10 Compliment Getters, and a Top 10 of Top 10s. They’ve published so many top lists that if you combined every fragrance mentioned, you’d get the entire Fragrantica catalog minus three entries.

A blogger will never say “decent perfume”. Every bottle is either “ABSOLUTE MASTERPIECE” or “guys, I’m disappointed”. There is no middle, because the middle doesn’t get subscribers.

9. The Niche Snob

“I haven’t worn designer since 2019. If it’s sold at Sephora, it’s not perfumery, just marketing with a scent.”

The Niche Snob has traveled the path from Dior Sauvage to Papillon Artisan Perfumes and considers this a spiritual evolution comparable to enlightenment.

They pronounce “mass market” or “designer” with the facial expression of someone who just stepped in a puddle. They say “Serge Lutens” with a French accent in any language. They know what an “attar” is, and they will tell you. Especially if you didn’t ask.

If you tell the Niche Snob you like Coco Mademoiselle, they won’t argue. They’ll just look at you like a veterinarian at a hamster eating Play-Doh. With professional compassion.

10. “Will Update in a Week”

“First impression — unusual, citrusy, something spicy in the base. Can’t rate yet. Will update in a week once I’ve worn it in.”

Review date: March 14, 2021. Update: none. Since then — silence. This person is either still wearing it in, or has crossed into a parallel universe where a week lasts four years.

Fragrantica has thousands of these unfinished reviews. They’re the perfume equivalent of open browser tabs.

I imagine that in 2035, this person will suddenly remember, log back in, and add: “Updating. It’s fine”. And someone who waited fourteen years will finally weep with relief.

The Grand Theorem of Ratings

Individual madmen are only half the problem. The real chaos begins when they all vote at the same time.

Fragrantica is the people’s platform. Democracy of scent. One person — one vote. And like any democracy, the result is unpredictable and satisfies no one.

The Law of Vanilla

Drench anything in vanilla and caramel — and it gets a 4+ automatically. No discussion needed. You could pour vanilla into window cleaner and someone would write “cozy, enveloping, reminds me of grandma’s pancakes, 5/5”. Gourmand is the populism of perfumery. Pure dopamine.

The Law of Niche Disappointment

Any new Malle, Ford, or Lutens gets a 3.5 or below on arrival. Because the comments are instantly swarmed by a squadron of snobs carrying infinite expectations, nostalgia for old formulas, and grievances about pricing. One star off for the price. Another for “things used to be better”. A third because the husband didn’t hug them (see archetype 2). A new Malle must be simultaneously revolutionary and classic, cheap and exclusive, daring and comfortable. In other words — it must not exist.

The Law of the Posthumous Five Stars

If a fragrance is famous and old — Shalimar, No. 5, Mitsouko, it gets five stars from people who’ve never smelled it. This is respectful voting. Like giving five stars to War and Peace on Goodreads without making it past the first ball scene. Everyone knows it’s a masterpiece, so smelling it is optional. Smelling it is actually risky. What if you don’t like it? Then what — you have to reconsider your entire value system?

And right next door — a vintage purist giving the current formula a 2. Because “this isn’t the real Shalimar anymore.” They smelled the Real Shalimar in 1957. Or 1974. Or possibly in a past life — can’t quite remember, but DEFINITELY KNOW it was different. The result: Shalimar simultaneously receives rapturous 5/5 ratings from people who never smelled it, and furious 2/5 ratings from people who smelled something else. Average: 3.8. Nobody understands why.

The Law of the Flanker

Any flanker gets docked points simply for existing. “Why bother if the original exists?” — boom, two stars. Just for the concept. For the sheer fact that a brand dared to release something new next to something old. A flanker on Fragrantica is guilty from birth, like a younger sibling who’s forever compared to the older one. “Noir de Noir — now THAT was a fragrance. And who are you? Noir de Noir Eau de Toilette? Family disgrace.”

The result: a Fragrantica rating is a sociological cross-section, the temperature of a collective neurosis. If a fragrance has a 4.2, that could mean: (a) it’s good, (b) it’s gourmand, (c) it’s old and famous, or (d) the snobs haven’t found it yet. If it’s 3.4, that could mean: (a) it’s bad, (b) it’s niche and new, (c) it’s a flanker, or (d) it’s just expensive. The rating is cipher. And the key has been lost.

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And yet — I love every single one of them. Every maniac who at three in the morning writes an 800-word essay about how Encre Noire reminds them of a forest they got lost in as a child.