Barbie~Decapitated!

Somehow I survived childhood unscathed. But not poor Barbie~Decapitated, you know.

The day started like any other day with my two big brothers:  Them: Teasing; Me: Crying and Tattling.  My mother intervening: “Boys!  Leave your sister alone!” The usual stuff families are made of.

On this particular day, I retreated to my bedroom-the land of Barbie and Ken, kingdoms with Prince and Princesses…a room that was transformed by imagination everyday when I played dolls.

The first issue I had was with my father who for the first time ever refused to buy me what I wanted:  the Barbie case.  It was so beautiful.  The box was covered with glossy pink and black pseudo patent leather featuring Barbie front and center. Inside was a closet, including a draw for shoes and hangers for her wardrobe.  It was the prettiest doll box I had ever seen.  To my father, Mr. Practical, it was glossed over 

cardboard ready to fall apart~Garbage!

Instead, he gave me his prize possession-his fishing tackle box covered with faux snake skin.  It had a sturdy handle and two clips strong enough to remain sealed if an atomic bomb exploded close to the box.  

Nothing would ever fall out or break.

I burst into tears when he presented it to me.  How could I put my treasures in a box covered with snake skin?  Ew!  With a look of confusion on his face, he just didn’t get it.   Not discouraged, he removed all the fishing hooks, flies, threads and lures and gave it to me to house Barbie and her friends.

Back to Barbie…

Somehow, the boys confiscated, kidnapped and tortured my iconic doll and pretended to be Picasso, drawing green curly cues under her nostrils to imitate…how shall I say this politely?  There is no way.  They 

drew snot on poor Barbie’s face.

My screams could be heard around the world:

Me: “Who did this to Barbie!”

Bobby:  Dickie did it.

Dickie:  Did not! 

Bobby:  Did, too!

Dickie:  Did not!

Bobby:  Jerk!

Dickie:  Moron!

Bobby:  Numbskull!

Dickie:  Idiot!

Enter:  My mother.  The peace maker.

With an outstretched hand, I gave her my once beautiful doll who looked like she had a severe leaky sinus infection and couldn’t find a tissue.

My mother apologized and confessed that she did it.  Protecting my brothers, the holy terrors, was a perfect political move.  Quick thinking and very clever. I bought it, hook, line and sinker.  She knew I could never get mad at her.  I was too young to wonder why my mother would destroy my Barbie.

Naturally years later I knew it was either Bobby,  Dickie or both boys having fun.  To this day, her head has been missing. The boys of course  “don’t remember” decapitating Barbie.  I’m sure they did the dastardly deed, scribbling all over Barbie’s face in green, and then stole the evidence so I couldn’t accuse them. Rather convenient if you ask me.

Just like the missing picture of me buried up to my earlobes at Jones Beach, I needed proof to accuse my brothers of the heinous act.

And then a miracle happened.

A few years ago, I received a gift from Bobby in the mail.  A ring box.  How can I stay mad when he does such sweet things, right?  I love jewelry and I immediately tore off the ribbon and opened my present.

My mouth dropped. Inside was a head.  It reminded me of the scene from the Godfather when the movie producer finds the horse’s bloody head in his bed and screams.

At that very moment, I realized that it was Bobby who had decapitated Barbie because why else would he send me the Barbie head? To my way of thinking, the gift was a form of an apology all these years later. 

When they say, it’s the thought that counts…this puts a whole new spin on that phrase. 

Regrettably, Ebay sold him a fake Barbie head.  I think the rubbery head with reddish hair and a freckle face is actually Skipper.  But the thought was so sweet, how could I ever tell him the truth?

So, headless Barbie in the snake-skin covered tackle box my dad gave me so long ago rests besides the so-called “Barbie” head my brother Bobby gave me.

It’s all good.  Just Kid Stuff.