A hilarious mother-daughter story about burning Barbie to a crisp.
My favorite Barbie of all time had a hole in her head — and to be clear, I put it there, not the doll designers at Mattel.
It happened on one of the many afternoons I spent with my sister, Allyson, surrounded by a bevy of Barbies and our cosmetic cases re-purposed as wardrobe trunks. When we opened those cases, they were like treasure chests overflowing with shimmering ball gowns, flowered day dresses, and of course, swimwear.
While my mom was happy to purchase multiple Barbies as well as outfits with all manner of accessories, she never willingly purchased the large plastic accoutrements, like the Dream Houses or the convertibles. I think she believed that would limit our imaginations as well as needlessly clutter our modest split-level home. Instead, Allyson and I created our own Dream Worlds upon the orange shag carpet of our 1970s den. That two-inch fuzzy rug could become the jungles of Africa for a Barbie safari or the sands of the Sahara for a Barbie Arabian nights adventure.
On the afternoon my Barbie had a misadventure which would forever change her beautiful blonde head, Allyson and I had assembled all 10 of our Barbies in their best bikinis for a beach party. I don’t remember if we were creating a Hawaiian luau or a California clambake, but we moved our Barbies onto the end table next to the couch to get them closer to the sun — a part played by the living room lamp. We placed one Barbie under the large drum shade, balancing right next to the bulb so she could get a better tan.
About this time, my mom called us to dinner, and we left the beach party for our real-world Shake and Bake chicken and Jolly Green Giant peas in butter sauce. Halfway through our family dinner, my dad asked, “Does it smell like something is burning?”
Allyson and I raced downstairs to discover a smoking hot Barbie. Instead of her beautiful golden head of hair, our Barbie now had a black halo surrounding a still smoldering and actively melting crater on her skull.
That night, I am sure I cried to see my Barbie so disfigured, but over time, she became my favorite. There was something about touching that crusty black edge of the crown of her head before it dipped back into the beautiful blonde that I loved. Having a Barbie with a deep scar and a story to tell about it felt more like my own real world.
When I married and had my own family of four daughters, I bought them each Barbies with ball gowns as well as beach outfits. I told them how I burned my Barbie, and it must have fascinated my oldest daughter, Lauren. I think she, too, became fixated on the idea of the once perfect Barbie with a burnt hole in her head.
So two decades after I disfigured my doll on accident, Lauren tried it on purpose. One afternoon, I discovered her and her friend in our driveway with two Barbies, a pie pan and a pack of matches. I stopped them just before those highly flammable miniature ball gowns went up in flames with Barbie’s long blond hair.
Now an adult, Lauren tells me it wasn’t really the burnt hole she was after. It was the way Barbie’s hair “sparkled and popped” when it was on fire. Lauren and her friend thought it looked beautiful.
Now, my daughter and I each have our own Barbie stories burned in our memory. We will have to wait and see how that fires the imagination of the next generation.
Kathy Izard stopped burning Barbies and grew up to be a writer and speaker. She has written two inspirational nonfiction books, The Last Ordinary Hour and The Hundred Story Home, and her third book Trust the Whisper will coming out in summer 2024.
