Tommy Girl, Reformulated (Hilfiger)

I’d forgotten how good this fragrance is. Released in 1996, Tommy Girl was the preppy brand’s answer to the original masculine scent that launched a few years earlier, arriving at just the right moment in the height of the 90s when everyone was wearing bold, fruity, and sweet fragrances. While the masculine version focused on citrus, apple, cardamom, and sandalwood, Estée Lauder tapped Calice Becker to craft the feminine counterpart. Her brief captured the decade’s obsession with green tea and watery florals, resulting in a luminous, airy composition that set the standard for tea florals.

I had a vintage bottle in the late 2000s, and it felt made for me -- a bright blend of lemon sencha, camellia, blackcurrant, honeysuckle, jasmine, and lotus, grounded in a cool, aquatic green tea and sandalwood base. It was smooth and radiant, and I loved it until I developed a mild allergy to something in it, probably a lily of the valley material. After an hour with it on, I’d get lightheaded and feel pressure in my chest. Eventually, I passed the bottle to a girlfriend, feeling a bit embarrassed that a “girly” scent had been too much for me. I still missed it, though, and wondered if I'd ever get to enjoy it again, which sounds like a minor concern, and it would be, except that I really, really liked it. 

Fast forward to 2025, and I decided to give the reformulation a fair shot, thinking it might be gentler now that many of the old-school materials, like hydroxycitronellal, lilial, and lyral, have been banned or restricted. To my surprise, it smells just like I remember. Same crisp lemon tea opening, same tart blackcurrant and green tea swirl, same floral mist. No allergic reaction, no compromises. It’s as if the formula had been rebuilt note for note using modern components. Whoever reworked it—maybe Becker herself—deserves major credit. And as for whether a guy can wear Tommy Girl? Absolutely. It’s not overly sweet early on, and frankly, it’s better than the masculine version. Why settle for less? This fragrance is still stunning and very much worth wearing today.

Carmina (Creed)

In 2019, Banana Republic released Dark Cherry & Amber in its Icon line, a wonderful table cherry and praline composition by Claude Dir that is as majestic as it is austere. It smells great, and wears well in most situations and seasons, but I find that its praline and cherry blossom accord is easily its best feature, with the cherry merely a top note that segues well into the florals. It's a cheap fragrance that doesn't smell cheap, and could easily pass as something by Montale or Etat Libre d'Orange.

Carmina is one of the first Kering Creeds, released in 2023 shortly after their acquisition, and is thus subject to the latest version of “Let’s Shit on Creed,” formally titled “Kering is Driving Creed Into the Ground.” The premise is simple: Kering is a big company full of suited gorillas who wouldn’t recognize a proper perfume if it popped them in the schnoz. Naturally, their ownership of Creed means that all future Creeds will officially suck and not smell like Creed. Every NPC from here to the Kerguelen Islands will consider themselves privileged to impugn the legitimacy of a brand that has forever eschewed its former base blend of natural ambergris tincture and Ambroxan for new, “scratchy” Norlimbanol and safranal bases that smell generic and flat. Since Carmina comes in the new 75 ml Kering bottle and boasts a pyramid suspiciously similar to Dark Cherry & Amber, it must be an unused Claude Dir mod that was simply appropriated and given a luxury makeover.

Not so fast, cynical NPC. I've finally had a chance to wear Carmina and spend some quality time with it. As an owner of Dark Cherry & Amber, I can tell you that Carmina is similar about three hours into its drydown, but the differences from top note to eleventh-hour base make owning both far from redundant. Carmina smells gorgeous at every stage, shimmering for hours with a remarkably radiant accord of sweet Bing cherry preserve, fruity pink pepper, Fahrenheit-style violet, and jammy Turkish rose. This is all atop a stunning blend of safranal, Cashmeran, Norlimbanol, and Ambroxan. The material quality is Creed level, and the scent is reminiscent of Creed Love in Black (2008). The fragrance resembles Love in Black just as much as it does Dark Cherry & Amber. Frankly, I think Kering didn’t pay Dir's formula much mind at all; they took an easier route, using a forgotten mod from Creed’s own feminine line from 15 years prior and “updating” it with contemporary tropes of cherry and overly sweet florals. Carmina feels like a rush job by Kering, relying on a pre-existing Creed formula that they merely gave a facelift.

Anyone who gives this a thumbs down needs to explain why, as I find it hard to believe anyone could smell this and think it's just another overpriced cherry fragrance. There’s a reason Carmina has become popular among women; it has effectively become Creed's feminine Aventus—ironic, since Aventus for Her exists. Carmina smells amazing. I don’t miss the ambergris; Love in Black didn’t use it either, likely because it doesn’t suit this scent. It's addictive, with crystalline cherry and rose as its standout features. Unlike Dark Cherry & Amber, Carmina captures the essence of cherry from top to base. Creed has a new masterpiece, and as always, the only question is: who is the perfumer?

Sakura Snow (d'Annam)

My interpretation of Anh Ngo's name for this fragrance may differ from the public's; I don’t take Sakura Snow to imply notes of cherry blossom and snow. Rather, I believe Ngo was being poetic, likening the falling blossoms of the ornamental cherry tree to snowfall. 

The fragrance reflects this perfectly -- there’s nothing snowy about it (if you want a snowy floral, try Snowy Owl by Zoologist). Instead, it highlights juniper berries and cherry blossoms -- an intriguing combination, if I may say so. The juniper berry is bright and dimensional, offering a cool, aromatic texture that blends seamlessly with the benzyl acetate and Hedione HC of cherry blossom. Sakura Snow’s almost gin-like opening soon softens into a feathery cherry blossom scent -- light, airy, and expansive, yet surprisingly potent. It’s one of those rare compositions that seems to grow stronger as it dries down, amplifying rather than fading. Supporting this delicate floral core is an ambery structure that feels radiant yet refined, with a touch of woodiness that never fully materializes into a recognizable bark or branch note. There’s a familiar twang, subtler than the usual Ambroxan -- perhaps Cetalox? Whatever it is, it lends a mineralic but gentle quality, with a hint of salty animalics -- clean without being soapy, cozy without being sweet.

After ten hours -- yes, it lasts that long -- Sakura Snow settles into a quiet hum of everything that came before, its refined Ambroxan-like base still whispering echoes of juniper and ethereal florals. Does it smell rich, dimensional, and naturalistic? In a way, yes. It smells expensive. And it is expensive. But if you love cherry blossom and the zen-like serenity of its airy florals, that dulcet olfactory tone, Sakura Snow is likely worth it. I enjoyed it, and if cherry blossom were a note I adored, I’d own a bottle.