Nope. It most certainly is not.
The plastic Cindy knockoff was not what I asked Father Christmas for at all. The face tells you everything, though I did have the decency to hold my peace, which was big of me, when you consider the large pile of wrapping paper lying about, suggesting the existence of more presents than some kids see in their entire lives.
My poor Mum. She did try. And I dare say gave Serious Consideration to juggling the Christmas budget to somehow afford a Real Barbie, but just couldn't bring herself to do it. It would have undermined every feminist value that she was trying to instill in me. That, and the fact that she just hated Barbie's guts. Mum never was a big fan of the leggy-but-decidedly-common-blonde-tart-type, and it had nothing whatsoever to do with the fact that mum herself was dark-haired, swarthy and, not to put too fine a point on it, short.
She did what she believed was right, and I applaud her for it. She also inadvertently raised Barbie, on my Personal Desirometer, to ultra mega gatwillion kryptonite status. Permanently.
I don't think I ever stopped wanting a Barbie. I probably still want a Barbie, and very embarrassed I am to admit it. It creates a most discordant paradox in an otherwise liberated mind that prides itself on it's Right Thinking and All Round Highly Evolved State.
So, the question is, did I grow up to be like my mother and teach my daughter that beauty is not skin deep, that a girl does not need freakishly large tits, a ridiculously small waist, and anatomically impossible legs to be valuable in the world? And that she should define her life by how she lives, rather than what she's wearing and who she's banging?
Or did I shower my daughter with Barbies, and buy her breast implants for her 12th birthday?