Miller Harris
A unique visual signature based on accords, character, and seasonality
The Siberian pine needles hit first with a sharp, resinous snap that's almost medicinal in its intensity. Bergamot provides a fleeting citric counterpoint before the sage muscles in—herbal, slightly bitter, with an aromatic quality that recalls old-fashioned shaving preparations more than modern cologne freshness. There's an immediate sense of cold air and evergreen forests, bracing rather than welcoming.
As the opening's green assault mellows, pimento emerges with a warm, peppery smokiness that begins bridging the gap between the aromatic top and what's brewing below. The tobacco starts making itself known here—not sweet or honeyed, but dry and vegetal, like the scent of unsmoked leaf stored in cedarwood. The pine and sage haven't disappeared but now frame rather than dominate, creating a complex aromatic-spicy accord that shifts with each wearing.
Patchouli and tonka settle into a quietly earthy base where the tobacco finally takes centre stage, now softened by cocoa-tinged tonka but never veering into gourmand territory. What remains is woody, slightly bitter, and surprisingly clean—the sort of skin scent that makes people lean closer rather than recoil. The smokiness persists as a whisper rather than a shout, like the memory of a fire hours after it's been extinguished.
Feuilles de Tabac is an exercise in restraint that makes other tobacco fragrances seem garish by comparison. Lyn Harris opens with a bracing trinity of Siberian stone pine, French sage and bergamot that reads more forest floor than fougère—there's something damp and resinous about it, like crushing pine needles between your fingers on a cold morning. The sage brings a medicinal, almost camphorous quality that keeps the green notes from veering sweet, whilst the bergamot provides just enough citric brightness to stop proceedings from becoming too austere.
The spice accord (led by pimento) weaves through the composition like smoke curling through evergreen branches, creating an aromatic heat rather than the syrupy warmth so many modern scents mistake for sophistication. This is where the fragrance reveals its unisex credentials—there's nothing cloying or overtly masculine about the spicing here. The tobacco itself is dry-cured leaf rather than honeyed vanilla-bomb; think about opening a wooden humidor in a panelled library, not a pipe shop doused in caramel.
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3.8/5 (116)