It could have something to do with the company I was keeping when I first smelled Noix at the counter. I sprayed some on and it gave her a headache. Of course, almost every perfume gives her a headache, but knowing this, tuberose was an evil move. At the time, I was inclined to agree with her: it smelled like an older lady's perfume. It's the knee jerk reaction to tuberose. But as we roamed the mall, my opinion changed. Noix seemed much fresher than any tuberose I'd smelled. It lacked that heavy resinous bombast which seems to anchor so many of its peers; yet it wasn't transparent, either.
The addition of mimosa really does magic on tuberose. Some have called this candied. Others say bubblegum. I get neither. For sure, the mimosa sweetens the mix, giving it an almost edible slant. Violet sweetens it further. I get the green notes, which come off like snapped stems. But it's the mimosa I smell more than anything for a while. Smelled from the bottle, this seems more like Noix de Mimosa.
That note really never goes away, but the tuberose does gradually emerge more emphatically. Noix goes powdery; not overwhelmingly, it's still too damp for that, but it's there. The best part of the fragrance is the buttery drydown. I can't think of a tuberose fragrance I remember having this quality in quite the same way. There's a creaminess to Noix. It remains bright but has that buttery warmth of something darker. I often feel when I smell a tuberose fragrance that I have too many already, and so many of them are so similar. I would never say that of Noix de Tubereuse. It's truly that miraculous rarity, a contemplative tuberose, quiet and thoughtful. Nothing is weighing too heavily on its mind.