What Was the Meaning Behind My Decapitated Barbie Doll Heads?
Sure, you might absolutely be thinking the same thing you are… what a psycho!! In my defense, I was only maybe 9 or 10 when my stack of Barbie heads was found.
But before I start, I have to fill you in on a little background—but then again, I don’t think it really plays much part in the story. If anything, it makes me wonder more why the hell my parents never wondered or found it weird that I always got the same fucking Barbie doll? Right? Let me tell you, I am no therapist, but if I had to guess, there’s some funky shit in that, if you know what I mean. Hahaha!
So growing up, we definitely grew up with very traditional Mexican customs in our household. Dinner at 5 on the dot—as soon as my dad would get home, sit outside for a few minutes and take his shoes off, we would bring him an ice-cold cup of Coca-Cola or water, and my mother would have a three-course meal with the table set up and all of us sitting, just waiting for my dad to come in to start dinner.
Well, fast forward all of this to right here. I remember every two weeks or maybe a month—it’s hard to gauge the time in between because when you’re young, everything takes longer or comes too fast, so it was hard to keep track of time as a 6-year-old. Well, my dad, after he got paid on a Friday of his payday, we would go out to have dinner, and then we would get one new toy each. Oh yeah, I forgot to add—at this point in time it was only my older sister and I. The other three? Well, they were the wreck to my existence, but enough about them. This is about me! Haha!
I was saying… oh yes… one toy each on dad’s payday. God, that makes us sound spoiled, but let me tell you, we were far from it. But that’s a story for another day. 🙂
Well, here’s where it gets tricky. Now that I think about it as a young adult who has done her share of “the work” and therapy and all of the LA cliché spiritual bullshit—it has worked and made me better in many ways—but shit, here I am again detouring from the real highlight of my twisted, slightly psycho self. Me, who has always had a true emo side to her core…
My parents never questioned why Laura always got the same fucking Barbie on our free toy day. The moment we walked into K-Mart (it was like the vintage Target for those who never stepped foot into a K-Mart), I knew exactly where my basic bitch blonde-haired Barbie was, with a plain Jane outfit and no extra accessories except for Barbie heels and purse. And as I’m writing this, I’m thinking, “Maybe I always got the basic bitch because I knew what would end up of her, so why bother with all the bells and whistles like my sister’s selections?”
So off we go back home. I’m sitting in the back of my dad’s old beat-up Volvo that he loved—and when I say loved, he washed that thing every weekend, waxed every dent on that body, and did it with all his pride!
Anyways, as soon as I could, sure I would play nice with her long enough until she bored me. Making her new outfits out of toilet paper, or cutting holes in my socks to make new dresses—I needed to help her channel her own inner ego, and that meant taking drastic measures. And that’s when I realized, time after time, no matter how creative I wanted to get, a Barbie’s head is too small. With one snip with my arts and crafts jumbo scissors, her three pieces of hair… game over. Which meant snap! “Whoops, Barbie’s head broke because I might have pulled my hands forcefully in opposite directions!”
Before I knew it, I had a graveyard of plain Jane Barbie heads stashed in my closet at the far back corner. Once my creative haircut process was done, I was excited and looked forward to dad’s next paycheck so I could try again and hope that maybe by doing something different, maybe I’d get more than one snip in to really help Barbie find her “unique beauty.”
You must be wondering how the hell I got away with it and if my mother ever wondered where all my toys were. Well, let me remind you—if they didn’t pick up on why I would get the same Barbie, how would they know how many I should have or even what one to look for? Now, as far as getting caught… well, that, my friends, was tragic! A major reminder of how trauma is real!!!
My grandmother—my mother’s mom—would visit us from Mexico often and would stay with us for months at a time. And boy, do I have some stories to prove again how words can equal trauma. Hahaha! That will be for another time…
Home stretch of the story… Till this day, I have NO IDEA how my poor old grandmother FOUND my graveside of decapitated Barbie heads hidden in my closet!!!!! But she did!!!
Well, I was coming home from school, just jolly with no care in the world. I go to my room, and my grandmother comes in and immediately, straight to the point, takes me to the secret stash and asks me if I had done that. Shit, thinking about that now also makes me feel like, “Damn, grandma, you didn’t even give me a second to try and lie!”
As I stared at the pile of fucked-up haircuts, fucked-up snips, fucked-up bangs on every plain Jane Barbie, I knew I had to come clean. So I said, “Yes, grandma, it was me.” She didn’t even threaten to tell my mom or dad or anyone. Instead, she left me with a life lesson that till this day stillllll resonates with me. After a little lecturing about how I should treat my toys, her final words were, “If you don’t treat your toys good, do you know what they will do?” she asked. And I said, “No… what?” She continues… “They will scratch you in your sleep.”
WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK!!!!!!!!!!! What sweet, loving grams says that to their sweet, clearly not psycho granddaughter at a young age!!!! Hahaha! When I tell you I can’t sleep in my niece’s room when I sleep over at my sister’s because of all the fucking dolls and teddy bears—I still think of what my grandmother told me, and you best believe I throw a blanket over all of them so I don’t see them and they don’t see me. Hahaha!
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