Listen, I’ve been avoiding using the word “grandma” to describe perfumes in this column, because it’s so overused when it comes to scents. I didn’t want every other column to be “grandma this” and “grandma that.” So I’ve diversified my vocabulary, and I like to think it’s been to some success.
But this time around, I really have no choice. When I smelled Prada’s Infusion D’Iris, I was immediately hit with images (I’m so sorry, Miuccia, for what I’m about to do here) of mothballs and greyness, musty corners and heirlooms that haven’t left mantelpieces for nigh 30 years. It’s like stale baby powder with a hint of old, heavy, tattered blankets.
I somehow doubt that this is what Prada was going for, but you never know — maybe they were appealing to the Tavis out there who enjoy granny chic.
To end this on a positive note, if you’re like Tavi, snag yourself a bottle of this before it evaporates due to the fact that it’s been sitting on a neglected counter in a bathroom since 1976.