Clothes Encounters: Lessons in dollitics
In the first of our monthly fashion features, Katie Ross explores one item of clothing that has been particularly poignant within her relationship with her best and oldest friend.
You know when people say, ‘The kids of today will never understand’ in the unironic sense and your eyes roll the full 360? Well, the kids of today will never understand what it’s like to play with teeny plastic dolls you could dress up in chewy rubber clothes, and the ruthless politics that comes with it.
It’s likely that I’m looking at this from a non-parent perspective and struggling to see far enough down from the sheer height of this horse, but today’s kids do not seem to play with toys that aren’t a smartphone past the age of first getting their hands on one? This age is decreasing rapidly, with society on a steadfast trajectory to an iPhone which boasts an amniotic fluid resistant coating so your unborn child will stop kicking and just let you infinitely scroll in peace.
That said, Polly Pocket has been doing the rounds on social media recently, so maybe the kids are waking up to the good old days and why they were so good. Somewhere between embryonic and getting a phone (that had features other than call, text and Snake), I inherited a veritable kingdom of Pollys from various children of friends of my parents. Some are born great, some achieve greatness, and some have greatness thrust upon them.
A material girl since day dot, one particular feature of the 1998 revamped Polly had me hooked—her removable clothes. Something which helped set the tone for my relationship with my best and oldest friend, who I first met aged five (two decades ago). Rubber bell bottoms, rubber rah-rah skirts, little rubbery shoes where the heel always looked very appealing for chewing if you hadn’t already lost the thing. A significant period of my childhood that was ruled by tiny stilettos and their keeping.
At that time, our relationship rested pretty firmly on toys and a mutual love for sucking our thumbs, as I’m sure is the basis to many healthy, lifelong friendships (though possibly not ones that begin in adulthood).
You learn a hell of a lot about someone when you are playing childhood games with them. Are they good at sharing or are they going to gatekeep the pony with the shiniest mane for themselves even though you’re the guest? Are they a Sims player who likes to put their Sims in the pool then remove the ladders and watch them struggle? Do they even like to play out the Sims’ lives or do they just spend weeks building fuck-off piles on the hill using the motherlode cheat code 45 times then moving on?
One particular Polly play session with said best friend remains poignant to this day. As we played with her Pollys, bouncing them along the ground in different outfits, making them argue with each other (you know the drill), I noticed an item I hadn’t seen before, at least not in this setting.
“Is this mine?” I asked her about a mauve calf-length suede (rubber) Afghan coat, complete with fur (rubber) trim.
“No?” she replied. “I’ve had that for ages.” She looked shifty. The conversation moved on.
We switched to Barbies and started styling their hair. I was trying to master a French plait (still unsuccessful to this day), the slippery blonde strands fell through my fingers as I restarted and restarted. I was too busy staring at the tiny rubber Afghan coat. I knew it was mine. Nice try, I thought.
When her mum called up the stairs to signal my dad’s arrival, I shoved the little coat into my pocket and smiled as I descended the stairs, hugged my pal and thanked her mum for her hospitality and delicious lunch.
We arrived home and I immediately rushed upstairs to restore some order. I tipped my Pollys onto the carpet and reinstated the coat into the mix. I look down at a little yellow dress I took from the same friend during a playdate a few weeks ago. She’ll get it back when she’s ready. The cycle continues.
I am now 25, and over the two decades I have known my friend, our love for clothes and each other has advanced exponentially. From doll size to human size. We still covet, borrow, and share our stuff, with the occasional stain or hole and fibs about how said stain or hole came to be causing the same old familiar friction. I know that if I let her into my drawer to borrow something she will leave it in a total mess. She knows if I borrow something it might take me a little longer than most to get round to washing and returning it (especially if it’s white – surely only angels and beekeepers have a regular white cycle going). But I know she’ll fix it, and she knows I’ll give it back. We’ve had infinite practice runs.
The doll days are over. But when I think about the little mauve Afghan coat I miss them sorely, truly hoping that the kids of today will understand. You can’t learn how to surreptitiously “borrow” an item of clothing from staring at a screen.