Forever Barbie_ The Unauthorized Biography of a Real Doll - Lord [83]
After interviewing numerous upper-middle-class, Eastern Establishment women, I can say with certainty that most do not interpret the doll as an updated Neolithic fertility icon. They view her as a literal representation of a modern woman. Many object to her on feminist grounds—one hears the familiar "that body is not found in nature" refrain. Then the word bimbo arises. But let a woman talk longer—reassuring her that she's not speaking for attribution—and she'll express her deepest reservation: that "Barbie is cheap," where the whole idea of "cheap" is rooted in social hierarchies and economics.
On a recent HBO special, Roseanne Arnold, who, incidentally, collects Barbies, excoriated what she considered to be Barbie's middle-class-ness. Why didn't Mattel make, say, "trailer-park Barbie"? But to many upper-middle-class women, all post-1977 Barbies are Trailer Park Barbie.
Ironically, given the knee-jerk antagonism to Barbie's body, it is one of her few attributes that doesn't scream "prole." Her thinness—indicative of an expensive gym membership and possibly a personal trainer—definitely codes her as middle- or upper-middle-class. In Distinction, French sociologist Pierre Bourdieu notes that "working class women . . . are less aware of the 'market' value of beauty and less inclined to invest . . . sacrifices and money in cultivating their bodies." Likewise, Barbie's swanlike neck elevates her status. A stumpy neck is a lower-class attribute, Fussell says.
The 1961 Ken, with his lean body, subdued expression, and miniature Brooks Brothers wardrobe, was coded for upper- or upper-middle-class life. His first decline came in 1969, when Mattel gave him a beetle-browed, smiling face and discontinued his preppie clothes. Worse, his chest and thighs were beefed up, preventing him from wearing his original togs. No longer could he sport a plausible dinner jacket; he suffered the indignity of wearing a "Guruvy [sic] Formal" that lowered his class precipitously. True, the caved-in chest that leading man Jimmy Stewart revealed when he removed his shirt in Hitchcock's 1954 Rear Window became less dashing in 1977, when George Butler's Pumping Iron popularized muscles for men whose professions did not involve heavy lifting. But with his close-set eyes and heightened brawn Ken remained prole-coded through the 1980s.
Mattel made a decision to smarten him up in 1992—ironically by giving him a face it had originally designed for an updated version of Midge's fiance, Allan. But even with California's casual sartorial code, Ken never regained his lost standing. Barbie's initial 1967 face change, by contrast, did not reduce her status. The Twist 'N Turn face did not simper; its expression, though perky, was still aloof.
In a recent issue of Allure, Joan Kron dared to lift the lid on "Secret Beauty Codes." She points a finger at types of "class stigma" that differentiate a female executive—or a female member of the upper or upper middle class—from, for instance, her secretary. In contrast to the female investment banker's flat heels, simple clothes, virtual absence of makeup, and classic bob, the "working girl" will have "high heels, too-short skirt . . . exaggerated makeup, and Big Hair"—characteristics that upper-middle-class mothers have with dismay observed in Barbie. These mothers have, in fact, singled out best-selling Totally Hair Barbie, with her ankle-length-tresses and tight, thigh-high minidress, as particularly horrifying; she looks, one observed, like "a professional fourth wife." The mother's joke veils this concern: While women