The first doll I ever truly craved was a plastic cherub who could blink. As I crooned her to sleep in my off-key, babyish lullaby, she’d flutter her lashes and close her eyes. Magic! The moment I stood her up, snap! those icy blue eyes would spring open like she’d just remembered she left the gas on. That blinking beauty was my soulmate, my therapist, and my bestie rolled into one… until I met betrayal. In the form of a friend’s doll that cried when you pulled the pacifier out of her mouth. Not a polite whimper, but full-blown Bollywood melodrama.
I was floored. Dolls could do that now? I had to earn it, by studying hard and top my grade 2 final examination. And guess what? Forty years later, she’s still with me. She’s intact, though her battery’s dead, but she has retained her dignity. More than I can say for today’s viral monstrosities.
Enter: Labubu.
If you haven’t seen one yet, imagine a gremlin crossed with a cracked-out rabbit and a mildly unhinged emoji. That’s Labubu. These so-called dolls have the eyes of a stalker raccoon and a grin that says, “I ate your hope and dreams for breakfast.” The name itself sounds like something my mother would scream if I spilled ketchup on a white bedsheet. “LABUBU! What have you done?!” But no, Labubu is not an expletive. It’s the name of a series of, how shall I put this gently, demon-possessed figurines that have somehow become the “It” accessory of the season. And yet, they are everywhere, dangling off Louis Vuitton bags, clinging to Birkins like designer leeches. Apparently, this aesthetic nods to the iconic Jane Birkin, who used to tie trinkets and keys to her Hermès bag. But Jane’s accessories were classy. These Labubu things look like they just crawled out of an exorcism.
And they’re not just accessories, oh no. Labubu is a movement. A lifestyle. A cult, even complete with its own language, packaging, and black market. But if your charm of choice is Labubu, be prepared to queue. No, seriously, there are actual queues. Physical ones. Digital ones. Possibly spiritual ones. These “ugly-cute” critters have become a goldmine for Pop Mart, the company churning them out. This madness has also flung Kasing Lung, the illustrator behind Labubu, into accidental stardom. One of his doodles sold for £33,000 in March. I repeat: thirty-three thousand pounds. This should be made into a case-study for successful PR and marketing.
So now, naturally, everyone wants to jump on the Labubu bandwagon. Because nothing screams “individuality” like owning the same monster as every other influencer on Instagram. The dolls come in flavours, I mean, 300 colours with names like “Green Grape,” “Lychee Berry,” and “Soy Milk,” which sound more like bubble tea options than collector’s items.
My dear friend, a trendsetter, who lives in Dubai, is obsessed with finding the elusive pink Labubu to match her candy-coloured Birkin handbag. That’s right. Her handbag has to match her elf. But Labubu dolls are sold in “blind boxes” meaning the figure inside is a mystery until opened. Part of the appeal is the surprise element, and the chance to unbox a rare “secret” doll. So, she is still looking for that pink Labubu and each time she unboxes one her heart skips several beats. Meanwhile, I’m still trying to find lost socks that match each other.
But here’s my question: how long before these Labubus go the way of the Beanie Babies? They were like royal family heirlooms. People bought display cases. Some even insured them. And now? They’re sleeping peacefully in cardboard boxes beside childhood regrets and tax returns. Word on the street is that the savviest “kidults”, a term I wish I could unhear, are already jumping ship and collecting “Sonny Angels” instead. These are tiny, naked cherubs from Japan that come in blind boxes and wear animal hats, fruit-themed caps, and flower crowns. Because nothing says emotional stability like a miniature nude baby wearing a pineapple on its head.
I don’t know, maybe I’m just old. Or maybe, just maybe, we’ve collectively lost the plot. Because let’s be real: Labubu isn’t about charm, art, or even taste. It’s about exclusivity, clout, and the illusion of personality that can be bought, packaged, and worn on your arm like a badge of elite absurdity.
So no, I won’t be queuing up for a Labubu. My handbag, that my mother recycled from that old pair of denim jeans is too busy holding keys, receipts, sanitiser, and a sense of perspective. Besides there’s enough of monstrosity going on around us, I could buy something more worthwhile, “something fun that sparks joy”, with thirteen pounds(minimum)!
Views expressed above are the author’s own.
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