Timber

When I wore Timber to Milan Fashion Week, three buyers mistook it for a €1,200 niche fragrance. The vetiver dry-down lasted through 18 hours of backstage chaos, morphing from citrus crispness to something primal during the final runway walk. My assistant joked, "You smell like a CEO who hunts his own dinner."

During merger negotiations, the opposing counsel kept leaning closer whenever I gestured. By hour six, his parting handshake lingered as he muttered, "Whatever you're wearing, it's disturbingly persuasive." The cedar base note outlasted the contract signing by three days on my blazer.

At the gala, a perfumer circled me like a shark. "Impossible," she hissed, "Bvlgari's essence cloned this perfectly?" When I revealed it was Timber, she demanded six bottles. The citrus-top deception, woody-heart seduction: a masterclass in olfactory espionage.

Timber's first hour: lemon zest cuts through hospital antiseptic. By mid-shift, cypress resin masks ICU despair. At midnight, benzoin's glow still battles the death scent clinging to my scrubs. Colleagues ask, "How do you still smell human?"

Wore Timber to pitch VCs. The bergamot sharpened my pitch, the vetiver grounded their objections. When the ambergris accord emerged during Q&A, three investors leaned in synchronously. Closed the round, and received two marriage proposals.

In court, his Tom Ford Oud Wood wilted beside my 14-hour sillage. The judge complimented my "professional aura" during alimony negotiations. Timber's cedar backbone cost €180. The confidence? Priceless.

Timber's citrus cuts through Tokyo's humidity like a katana. The vetiver mid acts as olfactory armor against subway crowds. By the time cypress resin emerges at dinner, even the sushi chef asks, "What forest god favors you?"

Jazz clubs reek of sweat and cheap whiskey. But Timber? Its cedar base absorbs smoke while vetiver harmonizes with blue notes. Last set, a woman pressed her business card into my palm: turned out to be Guerlain's head perfumer.

Bvlgari's version fades by lunch. Timber? Its microencapsulated heart pulses through back-to-back surgeries. The benzoin dry-down still lingers when I kiss my wife goodnight. She whispers, "You smell like promotion material."

Three sprays of Timber survived a 600 km desert drive. The citrus-top fought sandstorm grit, while vetiver roots kept me grounded during Autopilot glitches. Arrived smelling like a rainforest conquering Mars.

At the patent lawsuit, opposing counsel's Aventus clone faltered by recess. Timber's cypress-resin intensity escalated with each objection. The judge later admitted, "Your fragrance's longevity influenced the injunction ruling."

Subway warriors flinch when my cedar sillage hits. The vetiver mid transforms urine-stained stairs into mountain trails. By Wall Street, the benzoin dry-down makes interns part like Moses at the Red Sea.