The car’s wheels get stuck on the fur of my carpet; hair gets caught up in the plastic wheels, and the car comes to an abrupt stop under my hands. I lift it gently after opening the door and setting Barbie onto the floor: legs out, arms extended, the painted smile forever stuck on her face. Her blonde hair is in an elaborate bun that I created; I think it’s a masterpiece, she thinks it’s horrendous. I take the bathroom scissors and begin to chop at the brown hair that circled the wheel.

Barbie is 17. She can drive and somehow is already at a fancy university in Malibu, California. She’s a dancer, has two younger sisters who adore her, her boyfriend is blonde and tall and magically already has a stable job that granted her a mansion and her own Volkswagen Beatle. Barbie is smart, Barbie is kind, Barbie is a success. Barbie is 17.

Her blue eyes look up at me as I haphazardly attack the crevices of the car with the scissors that are still too big for my hands. My tongue is sticking out, the scissors are getting caught on the plastic tire, my glasses are slipping down the bridge of my nose. I am not 17, I am 7.  I look down at Barbie who has not moved. Her naturally pink lips are in a picture-perfect smile, her teeth gleam in the sun, her eyelashes and mascara flawless. Flawless, that is what Barbie is. So flawless she could be fake. Barbie makes no mistakes, she’s the ideal character; she can be the girl next door or the actress on the big screen. She can be anyone…maybe even me.

I place the car down carefully against the wall that I have deemed to be her driveway, stand her upright with caution, and allow her to float through the front door and down the hall. I imagine she floats, not walks. Her footsteps would be so light that they wouldn’t disturb the ants scurrying the ground, or even move a feather as she glides with purpose across her rooms. She looks at me with her straight teeth, smiling. I smile back with my own.

Barbie has a closet full of clothes that she never spends any money on; she’s an excellent cook. Her friends live down the street, they laugh when she laughs and cry when she cries. She wears heels every day; her bed is easily made. She is a hard worker, a goal-setter, a go-getter. Barbie is resilient, Barbie is determined, Barbie is industrious. Barbie is 17.

Her hair is matted; her shoes are no longer sitting on the shelf together. The car that was parked in her driveway now sits at the bottom of a wooden basket, positioned in the sight of a crash. Her house is kept the same: the bed is still made, the kitchen still clean, her house still in a perfect condition, preserved throughout time. I reach for the failure of the blonde bun settled at the top of her head; I think it’s horrendous, she thinks nothing at all. Barbie is a doll; Barbie is manufactured plastic with painted eyelashes and rosy cheeks. Barbie is forever 17. I place her back down in her spot hidden deep within the basement. She smiles at me before I close the lid, the white paint being rubbed off yet still straight, I smile back.

I am not 7, I am 17.