"What are you hoping for?" I asked her.
"A Barbie," she said.
The girl in me can still see the appeal - the glossy hair, the sparkly outfits, the glamour. You don't see the sexualisation as a child. You just see a doll and pretty things. I get why my daughter wants her, but now I get why my parents didn't - the unachievable body ideal, the dumb, passive face, the feet on permanent tiptoes.
I go to John Lewis to buy one, only to discover that Barbie has subtly changed while we've been apart. Every doll is wearing pink, every trim is sparkly, every skirt is obscenely short, every pair of shoes disablingly high. Maybe I'm wrong but I remember Barbie having jobs, wearing a range of clothes and colours. You could get a riding outfit that looked like the real thing - beige jodhpurs, flat back riding boots. Now horse-riding Barbie wears a pink glittery jacket over pink jodhpurs so fleshy in colour that you could be mistaken for thinking she's mounted her horse with no trousers (or knickers) at all. I thought Barbie was meant to be about childhood?
I go to an independent department store hoping to find a more sensible Barbie. All I find are Barbie princesses and fairies.
That night I ask my daughter what she wants to be when she grows up. "A princess," she replies. I explain that just sitting in a nice dress all day is very boring. I tell her she could be a princess who goes out to work. "I'll be a princess firefighter." she says.
I search online for a Barbie with a job. To my delight I find the "I Can Be a ..." range. I find that Barbie still has a multitude of jobs. She "can be" a doctor, a nurse, a vet, a palaeontologist, a teacher, a magician assistant, an astronaut ... but only if she wear pink, high heels and a teeny-tiny short skirt again.
But what's wrong with that? Should't a doctor be able to wear a miniskirt to work without judgement? If a vet wants to treat ill dogs in a low-cut glittery blouse that's her choice. But that's the problem. Barbie has no choice. Somehow she's become trapped on the set of The Only Way is Essex, shackled in a world of pink.
Eventually I find the most innocuously dressed Barbie I can, the one that most resembles the Barbie that as my childhood friend. The "I Can Be ..." an architect Barbie. She's not wearing pink. She's got glasses and a skirt that reaches her knees. She actually looks as if she's going to an office to do more than just satisfy the male gaze. I order her. Then I decide she will need some clothes. What fun is a doll without a change of clothes? I pick out a set of emergency service clothes - a firefighter and a police officer. Barbie can be that princess/firefighter we'd talked about. Barbie can be kick-ass and heroic.
Then the outfits arrive and I'm horrified. If your house was on fire would you want to be rescured (in anything other than a sexual fantasy) by a woman in nine-inch high silver platforms, sparkly blue trousers and a PVC skin-tight red jacket vaguely resembling something fireproof? Oh, and a jaunty little firefighter's hat? And the police officer who turns up to investigate the fire is in a skin-tight sparkly pencil skirt and a low-cut blouse. That's Barbie at work.
But what does this say to kids? "I can be," but only if I dress like a firefight-cum-stripper? What does this say to my son? His sister can play his rescue games with her sub-standard doll who can't run when the burning building falls because of her platforms? the uniform for Barbie is pink. She can't have the real thing because she's a girl. She "can be" anything, so long as she wears bum-baring, tit-tastic pink clothes. Where's the choice in that?
So I return the Barbie clothes and I cancel the order for the architect doll. Barbie and I have just fallen out. Big time.
It's time to find a new best friend. Lottie. She's a Barbie but without the bullet boobs and cinched waist. Launched in 2012 by Arklu Toys, Lottie has a body based on an average nine-year-old girl. She doesn't wear makeup, high heels or jewellery, but she does have a long glossy hair to style. Her shoes aren't cripplingly high and she can stand up by herself. She's got clothes and accessories - some are pink, some aren't. This girl's got choices. There's a princessy Lottie and a ballerina. But Lottie is also a pirate queen, a lighthouse keeper and a geeky robot girl - all inspired by real women such as computer programmer Ada Lovelace and lighthouse keeper Grace Darling, neither of which had to wear a pink uniform.
I search online for a Barbie with a job. To my delight I find the "I Can Be a ..." range. I find that Barbie still has a multitude of jobs. She "can be" a doctor, a nurse, a vet, a palaeontologist, a teacher, a magician assistant, an astronaut ... but only if she wear pink, high heels and a teeny-tiny short skirt again.
But what's wrong with that? Should't a doctor be able to wear a miniskirt to work without judgement? If a vet wants to treat ill dogs in a low-cut glittery blouse that's her choice. But that's the problem. Barbie has no choice. Somehow she's become trapped on the set of The Only Way is Essex, shackled in a world of pink.
Eventually I find the most innocuously dressed Barbie I can, the one that most resembles the Barbie that as my childhood friend. The "I Can Be ..." an architect Barbie. She's not wearing pink. She's got glasses and a skirt that reaches her knees. She actually looks as if she's going to an office to do more than just satisfy the male gaze. I order her. Then I decide she will need some clothes. What fun is a doll without a change of clothes? I pick out a set of emergency service clothes - a firefighter and a police officer. Barbie can be that princess/firefighter we'd talked about. Barbie can be kick-ass and heroic.
Then the outfits arrive and I'm horrified. If your house was on fire would you want to be rescured (in anything other than a sexual fantasy) by a woman in nine-inch high silver platforms, sparkly blue trousers and a PVC skin-tight red jacket vaguely resembling something fireproof? Oh, and a jaunty little firefighter's hat? And the police officer who turns up to investigate the fire is in a skin-tight sparkly pencil skirt and a low-cut blouse. That's Barbie at work.
But what does this say to kids? "I can be," but only if I dress like a firefight-cum-stripper? What does this say to my son? His sister can play his rescue games with her sub-standard doll who can't run when the burning building falls because of her platforms? the uniform for Barbie is pink. She can't have the real thing because she's a girl. She "can be" anything, so long as she wears bum-baring, tit-tastic pink clothes. Where's the choice in that?
So I return the Barbie clothes and I cancel the order for the architect doll. Barbie and I have just fallen out. Big time.
Read the full article here: Rebecca Atkinson: "Why I wont be buying my daughter a Barbie for Christmas..."
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