Safari Ralph Lauren 1989 Eau de Parfum
10
Top Review
The Choice Scent for Intellectuals, Circa 1990
When I was in my early teens I received my mom and my aunt’s perfume hand-me-downs. My opinions of those scents were of no consequence; love it or hate it, I wore it. Of course, it was always better when I loved the second-hand perfume. I hated Oscar de la Renta’s eponymous perfume but I wore it daily for three months when I was sixteen because my mom gave it to me. That was as good a reason as any to wear a scent, even a despised scent. But RL Safari was a solid love affair. Nothing could ever replace my beloved scent. Nothing.
I’m trying to get back into my fifteen-year-old self’s headspace to understand what it was that made Safari so irresistible. My fifteen-year-old friends were wearing Liz Claibourn, Tresor, or Sunflowers. I was a wallflower whose perfume made her stick out like a clichéd sore thumb. I carried my cut glass trophy of a scent everywhere I went, and boy, was that bottle heavy. I refreshed my scent often, which was absolutely not necessary. Often, I smelled of Safari even after showers. Our love was solid. But why?
It was the last of the big-boned broads from the late 1980s/early 1990s. Safari was not as obtrusive as its contemporaries (I’m looking at you, Red Door) but it was not demure, per se. Safari was bold but it was also tempered with green elements, like oakmoss and vetiver. It did not feature prominent roses or jasmine; they are present but lurking in—not dominating—the scent. Instead, new and unorthodox flowers were presented to star in this show. In a word, Safari smelled new. To smell it now, it smells kind of dated.
I never answered WHY. I loved its quirky personality and its greenness. I loved its status as a perfume outcast, for I was an awkward outcast, too. It was light years away from what every girl in high school was wearing. It was smart and sophisticated, or at least what I imagined smart and sophisticated women wore while reading Kafka for pleasure’s sake. Safari represented the woman I aspired to become. Safari still smells like that to me.
I’m spending a little time with Safari because many loves have come between us. It feels an awful lot like seeing a high school boyfriend some twenty-five years later while you’re shopping for tomatoes with your current beau. It is awkward and confusing but you might remember what it was that caused you butterflies some twenty-five years ago. Or you might scratch your head and wonder what all the fuss was about. I’m recalling the butterflies and the love letters of years past. However, I’ve moved on. I’m happier snuggling up to my Guerlains and my Tauers. But Safari taught me how to love and appreciate what’s beautiful and unique in the (perfume) world. For that reason we’ll continue to catch up every so often for a platonic date. We will then part ways until next time.
I’m trying to get back into my fifteen-year-old self’s headspace to understand what it was that made Safari so irresistible. My fifteen-year-old friends were wearing Liz Claibourn, Tresor, or Sunflowers. I was a wallflower whose perfume made her stick out like a clichéd sore thumb. I carried my cut glass trophy of a scent everywhere I went, and boy, was that bottle heavy. I refreshed my scent often, which was absolutely not necessary. Often, I smelled of Safari even after showers. Our love was solid. But why?
It was the last of the big-boned broads from the late 1980s/early 1990s. Safari was not as obtrusive as its contemporaries (I’m looking at you, Red Door) but it was not demure, per se. Safari was bold but it was also tempered with green elements, like oakmoss and vetiver. It did not feature prominent roses or jasmine; they are present but lurking in—not dominating—the scent. Instead, new and unorthodox flowers were presented to star in this show. In a word, Safari smelled new. To smell it now, it smells kind of dated.
I never answered WHY. I loved its quirky personality and its greenness. I loved its status as a perfume outcast, for I was an awkward outcast, too. It was light years away from what every girl in high school was wearing. It was smart and sophisticated, or at least what I imagined smart and sophisticated women wore while reading Kafka for pleasure’s sake. Safari represented the woman I aspired to become. Safari still smells like that to me.
I’m spending a little time with Safari because many loves have come between us. It feels an awful lot like seeing a high school boyfriend some twenty-five years later while you’re shopping for tomatoes with your current beau. It is awkward and confusing but you might remember what it was that caused you butterflies some twenty-five years ago. Or you might scratch your head and wonder what all the fuss was about. I’m recalling the butterflies and the love letters of years past. However, I’ve moved on. I’m happier snuggling up to my Guerlains and my Tauers. But Safari taught me how to love and appreciate what’s beautiful and unique in the (perfume) world. For that reason we’ll continue to catch up every so often for a platonic date. We will then part ways until next time.