All my pretty Barbies

I don't think I'm going to watch the Barbie movie. I am easily overwhelmed by visual stimulation. Besides, I've read in reviews that Ken melts women's hearts and makes them polish the patriarchy to a fine shine again.

I was never a girl who played with dolls. Who decided, anyway, that little girls love plastic dolls that coo “mama" and whose eyes close when you lie them down? But then Ruth Handler came up with an adult doll with boobs that caught my eye.

You see, I never wanted boobs, but I wanted to be grown up. I owned a whole bevy of Barbies. I was still small enough not to grasp the silent “r" and wonder why a grown-up female doll was called a baby (babie in Afrikaans).

I played with my Barbies all by myself. They didn't have names. Their roles and personalities changed like their outfits. They were part of a theatre company. I devised scripts and dreamed up long dialogues for them. They inhabited a women's island without husbands or children. They lounged all day, looking beautiful, and their beauty was for themselves.

No, I never asked for a Ken doll. Something that happened when I was quite small made me long for a safe world inhabited only by women.

Scent of sex

I had one genuine Mattel Barbie, and she was the queen among the bunch of imitations made of thin plastic. I remember what she smelled like: a complex plastic scent that my young mind already suspected had something to do with sex. Her legs could bend at the knee, and her hair was blonde, thick and shiny.

I did have a soft spot for the drabber brunettes too, like Cinderella's ugly stepsisters. The little group often went swimming in the fishpond, sat on flat rocks, and philosophised about life. The less attractive sisters could only sit with their legs stretched out. The queen could let her toes dangle in the water.

I wanted harmony on my women's island; everyone had to behave like adults and speak nicely to each other. But as a writer-director and producer, I realised that characters have a will of their own. Bitchiness and catfights often erupted, unfortunately. Animosity and jealousy. Mudslinging. Factions.

Of course, I wasn't left in peace in my Barbie world. My brothers were identical twins, almost two years older than me, but they often felt younger. They were the prettiest boys on earth, trapped in their private twin world, with their own language consisting of grunts, micro-facial expressions and telepathy. They never talked to me if they could help it. They were in the grip of complicated frustrations, prone to outbursts of rage, with a destructive streak. There's no end to the mischief to which your reflection can wordlessly inspire you.  My mom always made excuses for them, saying: “It's hard to be boys. They feel threatened by you."

The twins wouldn't leave my Barbies alone. When I entered my room, my dolls were undressed and lying in indecent embraces. Their heads were detached (the neck ended in a knob like a small head) or placed on different bodies. Hair was cut off. One unfortunate imitation made of thin plastic had her blind boob tips, sharp like Toblerone peaks, snipped off. A hole was made between her long legs so that she could pee if you were to remove her head and fill her body with water. She lost an eye. The real Barbie's legs were bent the wrong way round. Flimsy parachutes were fashioned, and the Barbies jumped off the roof. One dived into the toilet. “Boys ..." my mom mumbled.

Boys’ hormones

Perhaps the impossible dimensions of the dolls' female bodies stirred dormant male hormones and triggered gender-based violence.

I never wanted to look like Barbie, but — mercifully late — shortly after I turned 16, my body turned against me and became Barbie-like. I caught the eyes of Kens and trolls. The attention was unwelcome, and the only remedy was to eat myself into chubbiness. Ten or 12 extra kilos make men's eyes bounce off you like pebbles skipping on water. To my mother's consternation, because how would I find a husband? “These are your most beautiful years, and you're hiding behind rolls of fat. And you walk hunched to conceal your breasts, to boot."

My twin brothers never broke free from their private world of two. They remained mysterious and moody throughout their lives, mostly high, yet still lethally attractive. After the death of the first, the remaining brother and I found each other. It was a joyful recognition — a muted reflection. He began to communicate. Slowly, with a bone-dry sense of humour. He was a voracious reader. He was my favourite. When someone asked him where his brother was, he replied, “dead as a doornail". Unfortunately, he followed his brother shortly thereafter.

My troubled brothers. If only I could have them again, they would be welcome to snip the boobs off all my Barbies and let them fly without wings.

In my 20s, I slimmed down, wore my hair long, straight and loose, married a Ken, and bore two strong, smart daughters. In accordance with society's prescriptions and my mother's wishes. I went to church every Sunday and tried my darnedest to play house, but it just wouldn't work out. Like the less attractive brunette Barbies, I had a will of my own. Nobody sticks to the script.

Only later in life, after 40, did I depart for a women's island. Now my lovely doll and I sit on flat rocks, philosophising, and our beauty is only for ourselves.

♦ VWB ♦

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