Buying my first Barbie at the age of 23 was an emotional experience

By Jishnu Bandyopadhyay

I was about nine years old on a grocery run with my grandmother when I spotted her. She wasn’t Barbie, but she was beautiful nonetheless. Her crimped brunette hair was fashioned into an extravagantly large bun and she wore a stunning powder pink gown edged with white lace. At that moment, my interest in the racing cars at home and my cherished hardbound edition of Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets faded away into insignificance. Maybe it had something to do with the fact that the norms of society were starting to seep in and liking this doll meant rebellion. Boys hated dolls and the colour pink, and posing demurely in front of printed cardboard backgrounds was not manly, thank you very much. I wanted what I couldn’t have. I became convinced that everything I desired was enclosed within that glass display at that toy shop counter.

Unlike then, I was now lying on my bed, with my laptop propped up sideways on a pillow. There it was on the screen in front of me—the listing for the Western Barbie. The description went: “This collectible Barbie doll turns heads in her all-pink look, inspired by Barbie’s western outfit in Barbie The Movie.” She wore a matching denim vest and flare jeans complemented by an ivory white cowboy hat and boots with golden tips. The difference was that this time, I didn’t want the doll because it was unattainable. I wanted it simply because it was within my reach.

As a child, I was too timid to throw a tantrum when I wanted something. Characteristically, at age nine, I had politely approached my grandmother at the grocery store/toy shop, put on my best puppy-dog face—a tactic I was quickly outgrowing—and asked her if she could buy me the doll. Looking back, I am certain it caught her by surprise. Despite the shopkeeper’s snarky remarks and some side-eyes from other customers, my grandmother decided to buy me the doll, knowing the immense joy it would bring me.

14 years later, as I placed the order for my first Barbie, a whirlwind of thoughts flooded my mind. For how long had I lied about blue being my favourite colour before it actually became so? How much of my femininity had I curbed to get along with a world that felt comfortable when I was masculine? Was this doll merely a plaything or a bizarre manifestation of the one thing I always felt like I failed at—being perfect? Before I paid for my doll, I ticked the option to add gift packaging and wrote a note to myself on the free card that came with it.

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In the face of a society that limited women’s aspirations to marrying a man (read: meal ticket), Barbie constantly reflected the changing world around her. Progressing through the years, the Living Barbie of 1970 introduced wrists and arms that could bend. By 1971, Malibu Barbie had swapped her shy side glance for a confident level gaze. These subtle tweaks were cultural snapshots of the evolving freedom of women. In 1977, Superstar Barbie paid homage to the disco subculture, embracing the vibrant scenes from Studio 54 to The Black Cap. Barbie’s influence continued into the ’80s, breaking new ground with the introduction of Black Barbie. As women entered the workforce, the 1985 Day-to-Night Barbie celebrated their versatility with a suit and pencil skirt that transformed into a party dress.

By the ’90s, Barbie started collaborating with renowned creatives like Bob Mackie, Christian Dior, Versace, Givenchy and Ralph Lauren, fueling the trend of fashion-designer partnerships. Barbie’s focus shifted to becoming more relatable in the ’2000s, emphasising her actions and accomplishments alongside her appearance. Post-aughts Barbie came in a diverse range of body sizes, disabilities and ethnic backgrounds. Throughout the years, she has not only reflected but also shaped cultural changes. Barbie owned a 1956 Corvette and a luxurious house at a time when women could not even have their own credit cards. She had a boyfriend who was barely important and was happily childfree in an era where post-marital childbirth was the only dream women could aspire to. It was a toy designed by women in hopes of raising independent and inclusive generations.

Barbie served as a powerful symbol, especially for women and queer individuals, demonstrating that femininity and freedom could coexist. In a world that is often rigged in favour of heterosexual cisgender men, this doll inspired aspirations that spanned from a ball gown-wearing president to a hot pink-suited accountant. Of course, Barbie was rightfully criticised, examined and questioned for holding on to conventional standards of beauty and propagating a culture of non-representation for as long as she did. But these are also things that superhero figurines with a propensity for violence and chiselled eight-pack abs that are visible through invincible suits get away with to this day. Barbie was either too much or never enough, much like the people she represented.

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A few days after I had placed the order for my Barbie, my life turned upside down. An eye ailment led to surgery and syringes and I was recovering grumpily. When the doll arrived, I could barely see the packaging through my blurry vision. I cut open the brown box to reveal a gift pack. A week’s worth of zero screen time can get unamusing, and since I was advised not to read either, this was a welcome distraction. I don’t remember what I did with the first doll my grandmother brought me at the age of nine. This time, at 23, I unboxed the Barbie with the utmost care, disregarding my friends’ warnings about the collectible packaging that must not be touched. Delicately, I examined every detail, the printed bandana, the stitch lines at the hem and the star-shaped silver earrings before placing her on the display stand that came in the box. That night, as I was discarding the gift wrapper, the beige card stuck to it caught my attention. In simple mono typeface, it read: “You can be anything.”

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