My Burberry Burberry

My Burberry is a fragrance caught between whispered intention and muted execution. Kurkdjian constructs what should be a luminous floral—the bergamot opens with genuine brightness, those sharp citrus molecules immediately calling to mind overcast London mornings—yet the composition never quite builds into something memorable. The sweetness arrives quickly, buoyed by a rather synthetic floral accord that never feels quite natural. There's a compelling moment in the heart where quince's subtle fruitiness tries to anchor the freesias and geranium leaf, offering structure and a faintly spiced greenness, but it's overshadowed by the rose base that feels more like a whisper than a statement.

This is essentially a rose fragrance for those who find traditional rose perfumes too demanding. The Damask and Centifolia roses are softened, cushioned in patchouli that adds earthiness rather than depth, creating something approachable but ultimately forgettable. It wears like a fashion piece rather than a passion—precisely constructed, visually elegant, but lacking the staying power (both literal and emotional) that transforms a scent into an obsession.