The other day, out of the blue, I said to my significant other, “I miss the obnoxious Rosie.” I was referring to a little dog we had met over the holidays—an incredibly cute, energetic, and, on occasion, obnoxious and yappy one. He thought I was talking about perfume, because—well, that’s a pretty safe bet these days!

So I got to wondering, what would an obnoxious rose even be like? Rose perfumes are among my favorite scents, especially the more complex ones. Penhaligon’s Duchess Rose, Frédéric Malle’s Portrait of a Lady by Dominique Ropion, and Élisire Oderose, to name a few. An obnoxious rose, to me, was an oxymoron.

So, of course, I set about making one.

It would be a rose studded with not-so-polite accessories, a little bit of many different kinds. Rose damask absolute was the star here, but like wearing a flowing summer skirt, I let its beauty be extended by a generous dose of rosewood. This lady of finesse would express her newfound inner rebel by adorning herself with lavender, black pepper, patchouli, vetiver, angelica root, bergamot, and basil. They are her metal-studded leather wristlet at a black tie event, and the sass from her lips as she speaks her mind.

My first impression of this creation was that it was an obnoxious rosewood. As though the rosewood, in a rage of flower envy, were trying to usurp the rose’s rightful place in the center of the fragrance using brute force. The other ingredients are playing surprisingly well together, though, blending into anonymity as a collective.

As I keep revisiting the vial, the rose is regaining control, subduing the rebellion against its rebellion. Obnoxious Rose seems to be going in the right direction.