Monday morning, I strapped on my new two-tone Bulova Marine Star and baptized myself in Montblanc Explorer like I was about to board a private jet instead of the 8:15 subway. The bergamot hit like fresh Italian sunshine, the vetiver and leather wrapped around me like I’d just stepped out of a Florentine workshop, and suddenly my wrinkled Monday shirt smelled richer than a Saudi prince’s bathrobe. Ten minutes into the commute I was grinning like an idiot because I smelled so ridiculously good—clean, woody, expensive, and effortlessly masculine—that even the grumpy train conductor nodded at me like I owned the place. Best start to a week ever.