Embarrassing to remember, and even more so to admit, but true, I used to love my Barbie Dolls. The exact same dolls that at sixteen I view as not simply one of Mattel’s most successful marketing ventures, but sadly as something that tarnishes the dignity of women. Nevertheless my family constantly, willingly and eagerly tells me how I used to spend countless hours alone in my room playing Barbie. Playing Barbie and listening to music.

They describe the way I obsessed over their outfits. My Barbies couldn’t last twenty minutes without a wardrobe change. From formal gowns for a night out on the town with Ken, to acid-washed jeans and a fringed belly shirt for shopping with the girls, my Barbie’s wardrobe had it all. I used my small hands to manipulate her stiff plastic limbs into each and every piece of clothing. My favorite outfit was the Barbie wedding gown. Only my most beloved dolls got to wear the white polyester gown adorned with small crystals along the trim. A long bedazzled veil and arm-length gloves completed the ensemble.

My cheeks flush even more when my Mom and Dad mimic the pretend voices I used. “Barbie want to go to the mall today?”

“Sure Kendall let’s go on a shopping spree!” they squeak as if they had just sucked the helium from five oversized balloons. After the pretend voices, they remind me of when I created a hair salon. At Micay’s Salon the most coveted hair hues were scribbled on with Crayola. (Yes I would bust out my 8-pack felt tips and color Barbie’s hair until my hands were tie-dyed rainbow.)

I ran a full service salon. Barbie’s across the nation lined up for my famous cuts. But I’ll admit I didn’t have the steadiest hand with scissors. One mistake and they would end up with what my mom called the “Sinead O’Connor”. (Maybe I was onto something. My Barbies debuted crew cuts years before Kierra Knightly and Anne Hathaway.) There was something so satisfying about the pile of shiny synthetic hair and the spiky surface of their shaved heads. These shaven dolls also made perfect makeshift Kens. I only had one real boy doll-my brother’s old GI Joe.

Boys were important. Especially since I needed them to escort my girl dolls down the runway at the many fashion shows that took place on my pink shag rug. But the most important part of the fashion show wasn’t the boys, or the hair, or the clothes it was the music.

I cranked my pink Barbie karaoke machine (No this is not for literary effect, I still have it in my closet) to full blast. For the first four looks my Barbies strutted to Britney Spears’ “Hit Me Baby One More Time and N’Sync’s “Bye Bye Bye.” But I always saved Maroon 5’s, “She Will Be Loved” for the finale. Adam Levine beautifully cooed, “Beauty Queen of only eighteen she had some trouble with herself,” and “somehow I want more.” I don’t know if it’s the soft strumming guitar, the electric keyboard beat or Adam Levine’s voice. But when “She Will Be Loved” came on my Barbie’s sat ignored and my mind ignited.

I found my Barbies in yesterday’s clothes. My fashion shows were cut short. Micay’s Salon went out of business. I didn’t want someone to play dolls with—I wanted someone to “tap on my window” and “make [me] feel beautiful.” And with the last line, in strummed the faint realization that I was more “the girl with the broken smile” than the little girl coloring Barbie’s hair.