By Greg LaVoi

From the Introduction

As I was stuck in traffic due to a SigAlert on the 405, I glanced up at the SUV in front of me (driven by a blonde bimbo, wouldn’t you know it) and saw a bumper sticker that read, “I want to be Barbie — the bitch has everything!” Well, it’s true. After all, I’ve lived a great life in stiletto heels. I’m recognized wherever I go, even after forty-five years. People actually remember outfits I wore decades ago. I guess I was sort of a trailblazer with all of the career opportunities I had, unusual for a doll of the 1960s. Teenage Fashion Model. Nurse. Fashion Designer. Lounge Singer. School Teacher. Stewardess. Even the first female Astronaut. But through it all I realized one thing — you gotta look good.

Over the years I’ve gone through more hair dye than Cher and Madonna combined, and now I’ve gone au naturelle. Like most Barbie Boomers, I’m turning gray; oh, a little of my former blondeness still peeks out, but honey, I’ve earned this gray hair. Luckily, my measurements haven’t changed a fraction of an inch, so I can still fit into the clothes I wore in high school. I’ve had some subtle face work done over the years, but then who hasn’t? I’ve always adored make-up, from the sophisticated, painted look of the fifties to a healthier and more natural look today.

I’m always asked about the secret to my success — after all, I embody the American Dream of perpetual health and wealth. I have real estate: houses, the boutique, a theater; I have stylish transportation: the cars, a boat, a private plane and a motor home. Plus I have the ultimate accessory: a dream of a boyfriend, now husband…my darling Ken. In a country obsessed with plastic, everything about me is perfection. Not bad for someone referred to all these years as a doll (which I honestly never found degrading, quite the contrary). I’ve achieved iconic status and have been a role model for millions since 1959.

Anyway, there I was, stalled on the freeway, looking out over the urban sprawl of Los Angeles, my mind drifting back to those innocent days when Ken asked me to go steady, and all I had to worry about was what to wear on our Friday night date. This town has changed so much since I was the most popular teenager back in the 1960s. Though I miss Chasen’s chili and the Brown Derby, Midge and I (we’re still best friends, can you believe that?) now have our favorite table at Spago, the place to see and be seen. Of course I always smile for the paparazzi. I regret the demise of fabulous stores such as that grande dame, Bullocks Wilshire, where shopping was elevated to a mohair-carpeted art experience. These days, I drop dollars over on Rodeo Drive, which is not the sleepy little street of my youth, take my word for it.

My dates with Ken have taken on a new excitement. Instead of a hamburger and a milkshake, we have a Sky Box at the stunning new Staples Center — high above center court of course. It’s the best. Those team colors just don’t look good on me, so I have to settle for head-to-toe couture.

Everybody knows that Los Angeles has no true seasons except for Awards Show Season. It’s not that I’m frugal by any means, but I do love the Academy Awards trend set by fashionistas Winona, Reese and Julia. Today we are all vintage visionaries — we pull out our pedigreed Puccis, value our Valentinos and button up our Balenciagas (I wore my luscious Enchanted Evening from 1960 to the Oscars last year). One thing I’ve never understood, though, is why we have to be camera ready in full hair and makeup at three in the afternoon at the new Kodak Theatre; I say let the East Coast stay up late.

Architecture and fashion are certainly not stagnant in La La Land as of late. I attended the dedication of the sleek, cool Cathedral of Our Lady of the Angels in 2002, and I must say, I looked spiritually fabulous in sable and tweed. The new Walt Disney Concert Hall, that gleaming, spectacular stainless steel sailing ship, has anchored for all to see, and I’m on the gala committee, wearing a billowing Bill Blass gown — homage to the late, great master.

I don’t believe it, the traffic’s finally started to move and I’m in the fast lane again. But while strolling down memory lane, I’ve started to get homesick for the old days of sun and sand and surf. Today, as the clouds disappear after one of L.A.’s rare rainstorms and the sky is blue and the air crystal clear, I close my eyes and I’m transported back to the reason I love L.A. I’m so sentimental. As soon as I get home, I’m gonna dig into one my custom California closets, find my old scrapbooks and diaries and savor the past of a life well lived in stilettos. Come along if you’d like, darling. You’ll love L.A. too.

Forever,
Barbie