I had to suppress my gag reflex as they raised a glass of cheer in honour of her 50th. Words like "style icon" and "beloved" were rolled around as I rolled my eyes. Thankfully, I ran across this article http://www.thestar.com/living/article/599343.
I'll admit, I had a collection of Barbies as a kid (feminists like me don't like to fess up to that). Despite my mother's best efforts, the little plastic terror snuck into the house, along with her pink sports car, her prized plastic poodle, and her crew of factory-extruded friends. My sister soon added her own horde to the collection. In time, an entire Barbie compound occupied a sizeable chunk of the basement.
Barbie's life in our house, however, was less than fabulous. In the commercials, she cruised the strip with Ken, bought stylish knee-high boots and giggled on the phone. Our crew waged hostile take overs, got into in fist fights, and routinely lost limbs. We put Barbie through Darwinesque dramas, not to mention some goulish haircuts. Even as children, we saw through the carefully-moulded perfection that came with her in the box. Just as we kicked over lego buildings and purposefully dried (and ate) play-doh, we deconstructed Barbie, found out what really made her tick. If the manufacturers didn't want us to know her head was empty, they shouldn't have made it so easy to remove. According to my husband, it was just the right size to fit into her patented pink dryer.
Happy Birthday, old girl! Here's to fifty more years of little girls who aren't afraid to kick some plastic toy ass.
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