Growing up in Surf City in the 1970’s meant that I was envious of very few places. But each September’s issue of Seventeen brought its chilly pangs. I had been reading my sister’s magazine since I was ten, and by age twelve I knew what to expect. Cowl-necked sweaters, Bonnie Doon argyle socks—I especially remember those argyle socks—I’d spend a whole afternoon on the sofa in front of our gas fireplace (which was seldom on), looking at all the fall clothing and wishing, wishing I lived somewhere like Ohio or Vermont. Somewhere where the leaves fell off the trees and it grew cold enough to wear argyle socks. “It’s sweater weather!” the ads proclaimed—but not in Southern California. In September we were still wearing shorts, and a long Indian summer was just around the corner.

I probably wouldn’t have thought about turning my Skipper doll into a boy if the leaves were starting to drop off the trees, if there weren’t boys with smooth tanned chests and long hair carrying surfboards around my neighborhood. Bad boys, going to the beach when they should have been doing their homework. We got laughed at by these surfers each afternoon, already stripped down to their trunks as we were just getting off the school bus. Once a few of them slowed down in their VW and asked me how to get to the beach. Before I could answer, they beaned me with a water balloon.

Skipper was Barbie’s younger sister. She was a couple inches shorter than Barbie and she was flat as a surfboard. There is a 1964 Mattel commercial on YouTube that debuts Skipper. Commercials were longer back then, about a minute, and you felt you really got to know the products. In this case, it’s the family dynamics you get to know. Skipper loves to go everywhere with Barbie! a motherly voice proclaims. Like rehearsing for the ballet! They go skating with Ken! Barbie doesn’t seem so happy about this. Check out the scene at the masquerade party. Cute little Skipper, all decked out as a clown, following Barbie and Ken—again. A minute is a long time in doll time, and Barbie’s had enough of this tagalong shit. The shot pans out, someone removes Barbie’s mask, and she is glaring—glaring—at Skipper.

My two older sisters had already gone from glaring at me to ignoring me. There were times they tolerated me, there may have even been moments where they liked me (I like to think), but by the time I was twelve I might as well have been an only child. My sisters were rarely home except when they had to be, and private bedrooms took care of any need to interact. I spent a lot of time—probably more than I should admit—with my dolls.

eBay is a wonderful memory-trigger. I’m looking for a Vintage Barbie Dream House, but of course back then it wasn’t vintage. The Pink A-Frame comes up first, which looks like it came straight out of my neighborhood (though thankfully, none of the homes were pink). There it is! The original Barbie Dream House, in its cool blue cardboard case, all self-contained. It was designed to be carried like a suitcase to grandma’s. You open the latches and it unfolds into a one-story, open and modern:

BARBIE’S DREAM HOUSE COMES WITH A CONVENIENT CARRYING HANDLE AND FOLDS AWAY NEATLY AND COMPACTLY WHEN NOT IN USE. INCLUDES A COMPLETE SUITE OF MODERN SLIMLINE FURNITURE AND ALL THE SPECIAL LIVING ACCESSORIES:
CHECKERED PINK SOFA (BACK LEGS BENT & FRAYED)
GOLD BED (LEGS BENT & FRAYED)
BLUE CHAIR W/OTTOMAN (FRONT RIGHT LEG ON CHAIR BENT)
PINK VANITY CHAIR W/MIRROR (LEGS BENT & FRAYED)
FRAMED PICTURE OF KEN

The cardboard furniture was folded together with numbered slots and tabs. When Barbie and Ken were going at it especially hard, sometimes it would come apart. Didn’t matter, they kept right on doing it. They did in on the blue chair, they did it on the ottoman, they did it on the pink plaid sofa, they did it on the gold bed. On every piece of furniture, they were doing it. That’s why all the chairs and sofas and beds, doesn’t matter who’s selling, have bent and frayed legs. No piece of furniture can withstand that kind of action.

This is how a twelve-year-old plays with dolls.

They used to call racy novels “quivering thigh” books. When you’re twelve years old, you look at Barbie and you start to feel a quiver in your thigh. You might be a blimp because you’re about to have your first period, your eyebrows might be thickening and your little booblets might be smaller than your grandpa’s, but in your head you’re Barbie and you are HOT TO TROT (and they didn’t make Ken look like that for nothing).

But after a while, even Ken gets a little tiresome. Barbie rearranges the furniture. The bed goes under the window. The sofa goes into the middle of the room. She turns his picture around, pretends he’s someone else. Anyone else. But deep in her heart, she knows he’s still Ken. Dashing, boring Ken.

Out of the corner of her eye, she sees Skipper. Boob-less Skipper. One of my sisters must have been bored herself that day; she came into my room just as I was about to trim Skipper’s hair to perfect surfer-dude length. She sat down on the shag carpet next to me.

“What are you doing?” she asked. On the gold bed, Barbie and Ken were lying side by side, naked but turned away from each other like an old married couple.

“Making Skipper into a surfer,” I said.

“Let me do it,” she offered sweetly. “I cut straighter than you.”

“Just above the shoulders,” I instructed. She could be a terror with scissors. She had ruined more than one of my Barbies by poking their boobs in. Still, I was glad for her rare company. She usually barely acknowledged my existence.

By the time she was finished, Skip had no hair except for a short row of fuzz running down the middle of his skull. “It’s called a mohawk,” she said, brushing the golden locks off her lap as she stood up and smiled down at me. They disappeared into the shag carpet. You could see the holes on his skull where his hair was supposed to be. It looked like he had pimples all over his head.

My gorgeous surfer dude.

Oh, well. At least he wasn’t Ken.