Dior
Dior
45.0k votes
Best for
A unique visual signature based on accords, character, and seasonality
The violet leaf strikes first—green, sharp, almost gasoline-soaked—immediately tempered by nutmeg's warm rasp and a surprising brightness from mandarin that stops the opening from tipping into pure strangeness. Lavender and cedar attempt to provide classical structure, but that metallic violet dominates, creating an almost industrial floralcy that shouldn't work but absolutely does.
Honeysuckle emerges with unexpected tenderness, its nectar-sweet character colliding beautifully with carnation's spicy clove facets and a soapy-clean jasmine. The violet leaf persists but softens, now reading more as bruised stems than petrol, whilst the leather begins to assert itself—not rich or animalic, but almost rubbery, like warm tyres and workshop air.
Vetiver's earthy, slightly smoky character anchors the composition as amber and tonka weave a warm, almost vanillic sweetness through the persistent leather. The strangeness mellows into something surprisingly comforting—that violet never entirely disappears, still whispering its metallic secrets beneath the skin-like musk that clings tenaciously for hours.
Fahrenheit remains the strangest leather to emerge from the 1980s, a decade hardly known for restraint. Jean-Louis Sieuzac built something genuinely alien here: that violet leaf tears through the composition with an almost petrol-like metallic brightness, colliding with warm nutmeg and a surprisingly tender honeysuckle to create an accord that smells simultaneously industrial and floral. The leather isn't the plush suede of Tuscan boutiques but something harder-edged, reminiscent of rubber and hot metal cooling in a workshop. Cedar and lavender anchor the opening with aromatic authority, yet they're upended by that insistent violet, which reads as green, bruised stems rather than delicate blooms.
This is the scent of a man who rebuilds carburettors on Sunday mornings and owns precisely three beautiful things, all well-used. The powdery carnation-jasmine heart creates an unexpected softness, almost soapy, that should clash with the gasoline-tinged violet but instead produces something oddly compelling—a clean shirt worn over sun-warmed skin and engine oil. By the base, vetiver's earthiness mingles with amber and tonka to produce a warmth that finally makes sense of everything that came before, though it never quite tames the strangeness. The longevity is formidable; the sillage announces you before you enter a room. Fahrenheit demands an audience comfortable with peculiarity, someone who understands that beautiful needn't mean pretty. It's profoundly masculine without posturing, genuinely weird without being unwearable, and thirty-five years on, still nothing else smells quite like it.
Add fragrances to your collection and unlock your personalised scent DNA, note map, and shareable identity card.
2.6/5 (150)