In the children's classic, "The Velveteen Rabbit," the Skin Horse tells the stuffed velveteen rabbit that he cannot become real until he is loved by a child.  The rabbit failed to understand that the Skin Horse meant that "real" was used in the metaphorical sense when applied to play things.  In my case, I would have been "real" within a few days after I was purchased.

I came from a proud line of dolls that made a big splash on televised advertising during the late 1980s.  I was called "Kid Sister," the companion doll to the one called "My Buddy."  I was given a mischievous facial expression, quixotic large blue eyes and a pair of braids fastened high on either side of my head.  Like my "brother" doll, I wore overalls and a striped shirt.  The creators of the Buddy Line hoped to spark a gender friendly interest in dolls for any and all children.

Shortly after I was manufactured, I was placed in a large box along with hundreds of identical dolls.  From there, we were all loaded into a large truck and transported to toy stores nationwide.  As luck would have it, I wound up in a Toys R Us store in the San Francisco Bay Area.  I remained on my shelf, a uniform smiling face among thirty other dolls who were identical to me.  I was finally purchased several days before Christmas by a woman who wanted to buy her niece a doll.  Apparently the girl had seen my likeness on television and had since been clamoring to possess a doll like me.

On Christmas morning, I was greeted with shrieks of delight.  For several years, I remained the playroom favorite.  The little girl, her female cousins and playmates all delighted in playing with me.  Before long, my red coveralls became stained and ripped.  The child's older cousins made a velvet skirt for me and stiched on pink and blue rosettes on the front of it.  I delighted in the way the skirt flared out when the little girl and the other children played with me.  I liked the way the soft velvet brushed against my legs and resembled a large bell or umbrella.

Before long, my wild, towheaded tresses became unbound.  The little girl decided she preferred my flowing mane as opposed to my original style.  I looked and felt like a different toy.

After several years of being the playroom favorite, I was jolted into shock by a rude awakening.  The little girl, now nearly 10, fancied herself too old for dolls and relegated me to the back of her closet.  On her top shelf, surrounded by boxes and out of season clothing I sat, just waiting to be released.  Every day I yearned to be allowed into the playroom.  I wanted children to play with and a Skin Horse to tell me how real I was.  I no longer bore the stamp of a brand new toy.  With wild, flowing locks and different cloths and a face in dire need of cleaning, I must have looked quite the street urchin.  The dirtier I became, the more delighted I was because I felt that grime and a general lack of novelty were the criteria for becoming "real."

For months I remained in the little girl's closet.  One fine Tuesday morning, the little girl finally got around to cleaning out her closet after procrastinating for weeks.  She quietly complained about the dreaded chore, but finally gritted her teeth and got to work.  She dragged out boxes of outgrown toys and clothing.  Into one of these boxes I was placed.  For several days I remained in the box, buried under discarded sweaters, shirts and mittens the child had outgrown.

After lying in a box crammed with other toys and clothing, the box I was in was lifted and carried outside.  The cool air felt wonderful after months of being cooped up in a closet.  I had no idea who was transporting me, but I was glad to be outside.  maybe I would be used for my intended purpose once again.

I did not have much time to ponder my latest surroundings.  My stint outdoors was so short lived as the box I was in was unceremoniously deposited into the back of a new blue Honda Accord and spirited away.  Since I was not near a window, I had no idea of where I was being taken.  The ride turned out to be a short one.  Once again, I , box and all, was taken outside and left on a church doorstep.

The box remained outside the church door until a kindly priest unlocked the door the following morning to bring in all the donations people had left at the door the previous night.  I heard the  man's hearty voice marveling at the wonderful donations for the church thrift shop.  As soon as I heard the word "shop," my spirits lifted.  I would be bought in a shop!  I would be placed among other playthings like me and sold, yet again!  Unlike my first encounter with a store, I would not be a uniform doll among others like me.   I would be one of a kind!  I even had hand made clothing to show for it!  The priest must have sensed my delight because I heard him saying, "Ah, a doll such as this will sell before too long."  Once he sorted out the clothes and sundry toys, I was placed on a short shelf.  I loved my new perch and was reasonably confident that I would be spotted right away.

The church thrift shop was open only on Tuesdays, Thursdays and Saturdays.  Since I was brought to the church shop on a Saturday, I was certain I would be whisked away by an eager child.

Such was not the case.  I sat on that shelf a good two weeks before I was purchased.  Instead of being spotted by a child, a woman bought me for $2.00.  I heard her say that I was "just right" for the church pre-school.  I figured that I would again be taken to a site where children gathered, so I was not disappointed to leave the church thrift shop.

Once I had been paid for, I was dropped into a large plastic shopping bag.  From there, I was tossed into the back seat of a late model red Toyota and driven to my new home.  Since I was encased in the bag along with some other purchased sundries, I could not see where I was going.  This ride, like the one to the church was a quick one.   I felt the car stop and the bag I was in was dragged out of the back seat and brought into an apartment building.

I was immediately curious about my new home.  A beagle barked and I wondered if she was toy friendly.  I heard my newest owner telling the beagle to be quiet while she sorted out her purchases.  Once exposed to daylight, I saw that I had been traveling with a basset hound shaped flower pot, a picture of Ringo, a dog brush and a deck of playing cards.  The latter items were put away before my newest owner turned her gaze to me.  Making sounds of disapproval about my dirt encrusted face, I was immediately placed under a warm flow of tap water.  Soap and a blue sponge were vigorously applied to my plastic face and limbs.  My clothes were tossed into a load of laundry to be done.  I understood I would get them back once I was clean enough to pass muster.

Once I was reasonably clean, my new owner attempted to drag a comb through my unruly locks.  Muttering about the disgraceful condition my hair was in, she put my  head under water again, this time applying conditioner to my tangled locks.  "If it works on real hair, it darn well will work on this head," I heard her say.  "What an unkempt rat's nest.  When I get through with this hair, it will look terrific."

Once my head was liberally covered with rose scented conditioner, the comb was once again applied to my hair.  My hair no longer resisted it.  "At last!  I can finally get a comb through most of it.  However, since this head was allowed to remain in such atrocious condition, I think I will give this doll a Beatle haircut.  I'll give her a haircut like John Lennon had in 1964." 

Cut!  I wondered if that would hurt.  Surely it couldn't hurt worse than the comb.  No wonder people hate combs so much!  Even with the conditioner, the comb was only able to get through about 2/3 of my hair.  The combed portion fell well down my back, still a long, flowing mane.  Unfortunately I saw that the extra length would soon be shorn away.  Maybe some eleventh hour miracle would spare me the cut and allow that painful comb to glide through.  Maybe...

Too late!  My new purchaser picked up a pair of scissors with blue handles.  She cut directly above the wall of tangles, letting the extra length drop into a flowered wastebasket.  Even with a blunt cut, my hair still hung far below my shoulder blades.  Maybe my new purchaser would be satisfied with the basic blunt cut and forget about going any shorter.

I had not counted on my purchaser's grim determination.  She was plainly not satisfied with my remaining hair.  She picked out my sewed part with a large needle, thus freeing my hair from being bilaterally divided.  She called it an "unstyled mess" and "a nest that would embarrass a rat."  Picking up the scissors, she snipped and clipped, cropped and chopped until I wondered if any hair would be left on my head at all.  She cut for a very long time and I thought the little wastebasket had more hair in it than I had on my head.  My hair had been cut to a point above the nape of my neck.  She cut from back to front, neatly angling the sides.  She also cut a careful fringe across my forehead, just above my Ringo-blue eyes.

Once short, I was redressed and left to dry on the kitchen table.  A small white ribbon had been fastened to one side of my head, emphasizing the femininity of my unisex cut.  Having a specially made skirt was a bonus because nobody would ever mistake me for a male.

I wanted to know how the haircut looked.  I figured it had to be something terrific from the comments of approval my new purchaser made.   She called it "wonderful," and "reminiscent of a generation ago" and  "Beatle influenced."  Even her beagle barked enthusiastically, so I felt the vote was unanimous.

After my head was completely dry, I was taken into the bathroom and had my face scrubbed yet a third time.  When I faced the bathroom mirror, I did not recognize myself.  The Beatle haircut made me look softer, less mischievous.  I had a gamine, fey appearance that I did not know I possessed.  The short, angled sides did indeed look like the aforementioned John Lennon as my purchaser had pictures of him in the guest bedroom.

Lisa N. Collins has been writing short stories since age 7 and has been a lifelong Beatles' fan.  She has been a Beatleologist since age 12.  A late talker and early reader, she has been largely influenced by the Beatles.  She has worked in advertising and editing and is currently working in insurance and loving it.  She says that the best thing about writing stories is that like a ventriloquist, one can throw their voice around and create different characters and personalities.

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