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(To be fair to my imaginative child-self, my father had just died, this perfectly good guillotine shows up, I’d been raised among Barbie mockers…and then there’s my brother’s gory details. I wanted Barbie’s death to be just like Marie Antoinette’s. I then laid her down on the guillotine, neck positioned carefully - not only for tender last rites, but for the best possibility of a long head roll across the carport, hoping it might even roll off the edge into the azalea bush below. Placing the dolls’ heads back onto their jaggedly chopped neckstubs, I chose my first Marie and awkwardly walked her up the pirates’ gangplank to meet her fate (I wasn’t sure the original Marie walked a gangplank but it seemed like the right kind of thing). Ken’s neck was remarkably stubborn and I soon gave up on him to focus my attention on the real actors in this drama, the Barbie-Maries. Why not? I thought, he’s dumb.Īfter noticing that the dolls’ knobby neckpieces were why I had no dramatic flourish of head rolling, I methodically sawed through all of them but Ken’s, leaving beige bits of plastic scattered around on the cement carport floor. I gathered the kitchen knives I’d also promised never to use - and the doomed royals, er, Barbies…and Ken. I re-set up shop in the carport as I’d promised I’d never make a mess in the house while home alone. Even after using the kitchen knife sharpener, that blade was dull as toast. The first drop of the guillotine blade merely bounced off ‘Marie’s’ neck and her head didn’t roll at all. My first attempts at playing Marie Antoinette with Barbies were not very satisfying. Even as a child I loved history much more than dolls. The guillotine meant I could play ‘Marie Antoinette.’ My brother had told me all about her, embellishing the gory details, of course. Ken was suspect to all of us kids, he looked like no one’s father and none of us knew what to do with him…even his store-bought clothes were weird. It was homemade polyester Stretch-and-Sew creations for my Barbie and me.īy the time the guillotine arrived, I was bored with not only my botched-hair Barbie and her Plain Jane clothes, but also my bendy-legged Barbie, my home-made-crew-cut adorned Skipper, and the sole Ken owned on our street. To my frugal Yankee mother, indulging a child with pretty things, much less indulging a Barbie (“A Bar-r-rbie,” she would say with dripping disdain), was the fastest way to ensure a girl would be frivolous, materialistic, a gold digger, or worst of all, just like the other girls’ Atlanta, Georgia mothers who adorned themselves with pink and lace.
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The only fun part left was changing their clothes, and unlike at my friends’ houses, my dolls were clothed as plainly as I was. They were hard dolls, not cuddly at all, and too late I realized their hair wouldn’t grow back after cutting - even with shampoos, even after six months. Once my pleas were successful and Barbies were ensconced in my room, my fascination with them was short-lived. My opinions were heightened by the ban placed on her purchase by my progressive mother, who looked nothing like anyone else’s mother, much less like Barbie cruising in her convertible. I thought she was fabulous for exactly the same reasons. classmates’ mothers, especially in her cruise-in-the-convertible outfit she wore in the Sears Christmas catalog. Barbie was the exact image of everything frightful a girl could emulate, in my household’s opinion, and she looked scarily like some of my southern U.S. I’d had to beg for more than a year for any type of doll like Barbie as she was looked at with scorn by both my mother and sister. While eyeing the rough semi-circle cut into the guillotine base for cradling necks, I mentally inventoried my stuffed animals, my dolls, and eventually, thought it the perfect size for my Barbie doll…or maybe Skipper.
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As woodshop was beloved and history was not at this point in his life, much more energy went into this extra credit than did the paper itself. My brother had a report due on Marie Antoinette that week, visual aids gave extra credit.
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The top center of the blade had a hole drilled in it, a leather cord tied through, and the free end was looped around a nail hammered askew to keep the blade fixed until time for an execution. It stood about 18" high, with a metal blade wedged between the wooden verticals - grooved for the blade’s easy descent. The guillotine was sitting on the kitchen table when I returned home from school that Spring day, left behind by my decade-older brother. On Barbies, Marie Antoinette, and Being Left Home Alone