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9.17.2002 | link |

 

my aunt would drop her off sometimes and we’d spend long, summer afternoons playing with my barbie dolls. my family didn’t have much money those days. so i only had one “real” barbie doll. pretty and perfect.

she always wanted to play with real-barbie. and i let her. because i loved her. i would choose the imitation barbie-like doll my dad had found at a garage sale. it was hollow inside, its elbows didn’t bend, and it had a hole in one heel. it didn't even have a golden tan like real-barbie. it was pale and kind-of sad-looking. and it had permanent, heavy blue eyeliner. but i’d given it a bright-orange, cropped, punk-rock haircut and stuck multiple dressmaker pins into its ears. so it was usually more interesting to think-up dialogue for it. especially when the two would have overly-dramatic made-for-tv-movie-esque arguments over ken.

she preferred real-ken when real-barbie was going on dates. he’d drive around and pick real-barbie up in an empty kleenex box/car (which doubled as a barbie-bed if you turned it upside down). i honestly didn’t mind. i liked fake-ken better anyway, with its denim leisure suit. it had actual hair—not like the plastic helmet real-ken wore. and i always thought it had kinder eyes.

but i never told her that.


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