As
Sports Illustrated magazine would say, here is a “sign that the apocalypse is upon us”: For Barbie’s 50th anniversary, she is getting tattoos.
I am not making this up.
This spring, in honor of the doll’s golden birthday, Mattel Inc. has released the “Totally Stylin’ Tattoos Barbie.” According to the
Los Angeles Times, many parents have labeled the product the “tramp stamp” queen of dolls. And, even though public uproar has been loud, sales are exceeding expectations. This is America, after all.
I’ll be the first to admit that there was a time when I wanted a tattoo. I scared my mother to a whiter shade of pale one summer when, at 19, I strolled in the house with a large Tazmanian Devil painted on my bicep. (She honestly saw spots and had to sink into a chair.) Later, at 30, I flipped through hundreds of designs in search of something I wanted on my body
for-ev-er, while I watched my best friend get some funky, Asian-inspired swirling thing on the small of her back. (She, too, turned a whiter shade of pale; she had to stop twice from the overwhelming nausea.) In the end, I abstained.
A few short years later,
everybody had a tattoo — from my mom’s church friend to my yoga instructor to every 19-year-old walking down the street. Suddenly, there was nothing unique or rebellious about tattoos. In the blink of 10 years, tattoos went from being adventuresome and edgy to an everyday occurrence — more common than the Honda Accord or, um, Barbie herself. That’s when they forever lost their appeal to me.
Now, I have to say that there is nothing wrong with tattoos,
per se. I am all about personal freedom; if you feel the need to get the word
angel inked across your back (darling co-worker, you know who you are, you rebel child, you!), then I say go for it! However, when my youngest stepson recently got an entire sentence branded across his chest, my level of devotion to the personal freedom concept was tested. Yes, he’s a grown man … but in my heart, he’s still the adorable little boy who learned the times-tables at my kitchen table. All I could do was practice acceptance. Bottom line, the skin that you will wear for the next 80 years is your own. So do with it what you will.
That said, I have a problem with the Totally Stylin’ Tattoos Barbie. Tattoos — real tattoos — are an adult decision. Last I checked, you had to be 18 years old to get one. So why, then, does a 5-year-old or an 8-year-old or even a 12-year-old need a Barbie with tattoos? What is a tattooed Barbie supposed to mean, exactly?
Truth is, I don’t want my daughter to get a tattoo. Ever. I love her skin exactly as it is, complete with its tiny sprinkling of delicate freckles. But I am smart enough to realize I only have 18 short years to decide that for her. After that, it’s her decision, and there will be little, if anything, I can do about it if she decides to get one.
But I don’t have to stack the deck against us, either. And you can bet your Honda Accord I won’t be buying her Tattoo Barbie.
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