If YOUR nine-year-old hated Barbie® with THIS kind of passion, would THAT worry you?
I mean, I remember MY mom disliked the sexist nature of the doll, and restricted my ownership to that most neutral of Barbie®, Malibu Barbie®. She had plain, straight hair, and Mom refused to buy any sparkly clothes for her.
All her clothes were made, by me, out of my old undershirts. Her entire wardrobe was stretchy and white.
But I loved and cherished her. Remember how we used to make her talk? Bobbing her up and down with every syllable?
I do not recall ever dismounting her head and tying her, by the hair, to anything.
Hmmm. Anger issues, I suppose.
The kid seems, otherwise, fine.
Rides her bike, hates wearing dresses, though. Perhaps the girly-doll just isn’t her thing.
She inherited the bucket-O-Barbies® from her older sister. Maybe there’s some hidden resentment there. The old hand-me-down thing…
Either way, makes for some interesting, gritty-type photography.
I’ll ask the girl’s therapist, though. And keep her away from sharp objects. And bludgeons.
(photo: © Elizabeth Williams Bushey)
Everything you read on this blog is actually true. As in, this is a genuine, non-fiction blog. Generally, I don't name names when the parties concerned are (a) related to me and/or (b) under the age of majority, and therefore no matter how funny they are, unable to give their informed consent to have their hilarious but true commentary on the ridiculousness of life publicized globally. I do, however, skirt the issue of crediting them by admitting it was not ME who came up with their jokes, but "some kid." (Works for most of us.)
look - no, really, look 
I don’t know what to really say about the dismembered doll heads. As a kid I loved Barbie, not because she was blonde and perfect, just the fact I can dress her up and play with the plastic food (I think that’s what I really enjoyed) and the fact I can make her into anything I wanted, like a famous singer, a doctor, a wife, whatever. I’m thinking there’s some resentment there.
Or maybe some morbid curiosity. I keep thinking Wednesday Addams looking at the doll, she had a headless doll she towed around.
It’s weird, really, because the time the kid set the kitchen table on fire, there were NO anger or resentment issues involved. She was trying to figure out some lemon-juice-invisible-ink-hold-it-over-a-light-okay-will-a-candle-do-instead-thing.
When I — you know, as cool as possible under the circumstances – casually sauntered into her room and said: “Hey, kiddo, what up with the dead Barbies, yo?”
(I am SO not good at the ghetto talk, though. THEY’RE terrific at it, which gave her a great opportunity to make fun of me.)
“Just hate Barbie.” Shrug. “Don’t know why.”
Inner dismay on my part. Like you, she was my hero. Perfect boobs, like – of course – I would someday sprout. (Not knowing at the time, had I indeed sprouted Barbie-like bosoms, I’d be in traction.) Long, blonde hair. Always open eyes. Perfect makeup. (HER mom let her wear it!)
I feel ya. My girl has a kindred spirit in little old Wednesday, that’s for sure.
-ewb
p.s. LOVE plastic food! LOVE it!