A Day in the Life of a Barbie Doll

 A Day in the Life of a Barbie Doll

             Many don’t understand just how fortunate they are.  It is a gift to be loved and cared for and to be able to have the freedom of movement and speech instead of being tied in a suffocating cell each day.  Many don’t comprehend how horrible it is to be pushed to the back of the crowd while everyone notices the other, prettier dolls.  And then someone finds you, and takes you home only so you can be a birthday present for another girl who has too many dolls to be able to love and.  Next thing you know, her mother returns you to the store.  You become marked: a symbol of unloved failure, a joke.

             Spending the days on the shelves, crammed at the back with a tiny spark of hope is as tiresome and lonely as it sounds.  It mightn’t be so bad if I was pretty with a darling pink dress and dainty shoes and golden hair falling in an abundance of curls to my waist.  I’m a ballerina which should be helpful in my voyage to a loving home except that I’m different than the classic Barbie.  I have limp brown hair and my facial structure is different than other dolls as is my darker skin.  I’m the unwanted doll.  Despite movements among the human population for equality and inclusion, I’m the doll that becomes sidelined, destined for the bits of hidden inequality parents unknowingly pass on to their children with their collections of all the same pale, blond-haired dolls.  No one realizes it but I, the recipient of this behaviour.

             Day after day, I stand strapped in my box.  Ties wrap around my ankles, waist and wrists.  Cotton and plastic threads grab my hair and pull it close to the card board back.  A plastic box surrounds the cardboard piece I’m attached to and that’s how I stand each and every day, unable to move.  My lips are painted into a forced smile with my pearly whites unusually white.  My eyes are stuck open, staring, waiting.  All I see if the back of the Barbie box in front of me: “Surfin’ USA Barbie.”  Chances are she’ll be bought before me.

             When the store opens in the morning at 9 a.m., customers flood in.  Parents push baby strollers with their little children straggling behind, hands flying out in all directions, reaching to touch any toy or game that interest them.  Every once in a while, a wishful child reaches her little arms up and her fingers search on a high shelf for something intriguing.  The wriggling fingers wrap around the corner of a bright box and it swings back and knocks the row down.  Then a reprimanding mother arrives at the scene, grabs her child’s wrist and pulls her along.

             Every time a child passes through the aisle, or a parent searching for a special gift, we all hold our breaths in hope.  Unfortunately, every potential owner doesn’t actually buy anything and when there is someone who is ready to make a done deal, there are so many toys to choose from including a large, fun variety of Barbie dolls.  The Barbie dolls at the front of the shelves are the prettier ones that get noticed first and are brighter and happier.

             “Mummy!  Can I have her?  Can I have her?”

             “Honey, you already have so many toys!”

             “But mummy, I want her!”

             “No sweetie.”

             “Pretty please?”

             “That’s enough sweetie.”

             It’s a popular conversation that we toys loathe.  There’s nothing like an excited child who has too many toys to get you down.  Even if someone does take you home, it’s not always the loving environment you expect.  I’ve heard horror stories from my fellow Barbie dolls of torn clothes, knotted hair, broken necks, and worst of all, the garbage can.  It’s too bad the doll can’t choose the owner.

             Not all owners are horrible though.  I’ve heard many stories of loving homes, tea parties, dress-up and show and tell.  My only hope is that someday I’ll be surrounded by that kind of love.

             Once in a while a teenager journeys to my aisle.  This could mean a death sentence or a glorious opportunity.  The adolescent might waste his or her money to buy a sabotage toy or he or she might buy you for a loving sibling that they know will care for you.  Even better is the rare teenager who has a deep interest in collecting Barbie dolls.  They care for their Barbie better than anyone else with safe surroundings, love and displays all year round.  Of course, the chances of being played with decrease drastically but at least you’re out of the box and ties and shining happily.  Still, that’s a destiny that usually befits an expensive collectors’ doll in tip top shape, a finely crafted dress and the most incredible make-up and hairstyle.  My most likely owner is still a playful child.

             As closing nears, the little hope I had in the first place dwindles down farther.  It’s been another long, hard day.  A few last minute shoppers straddle by, but for the most part it’s a barren land of lonely toys waiting for love that will last.

             Around this time I begin to lose myself in dreams.  Glorious dreams they are, ten times better than reality.

             “Mom?”  I hear a sweet girl’s voice.  “I feel sorry for all these toys.”

             “Why’s that honey?”

             “Because they have no owners.”

             “That’s because they’re waiting for someone special to bring them home.”

             “Yeah, but some of them are very lonely.  They might never find a home.”

             “Let’s hope they do sweetie.”

             “Mommy, look here!”

             Little fingers push boxes aside and wrap around the corner of my box and pull me out, knocking over neighbouring boxes.

             “Oops, we’d better put those back!”  The little girl’s mother says, putting the other dolls up again.

             “Sorry.”  The little girl stares down at me with her big green eyes that shine like jewels.  “May I keep her?”

             “She’s a Hispanic ballerina.  I haven’t seen a doll like her before.  Oh, honey, I’m sorry, I’m not going to buy you any toys today.”

             The girl sighs and sits down on the floor, placing me beside her.  On her shoulder hangs a blue purse which she pulls off intently and unzips.

             “How much is she Mommy?”

             “Eight dollars,” her mother says as she glances at a yellow “On Sale” sign.

             “Five, six, seven, eight.  Mom, I have enough money!  May I please get her?”

             “If you buy her with your own money, then all right.”

             The girl picks my box up and hugs me tightly.  We head to the check-out counter just as the overhead speaker announces that it is two minutes until closing.

             I know it’s going to be all right from here on.  When a little girl buys you with her own money and hugs you so tightly and full of love, despite the fact that you’re different from all the other dolls, it must mean love.