I like to think of myself as capable of critical thought—uneasily swayed by the clutches of marketing and consumerism. But this time around, I’ve fallen for hype. I bought some Labubu dolls.
When I first saw clips of Labubu fever, I was unimpressed. Asian women accessorizing their designer purses with charms is nothing new. It’s a trend I’ve participated in myself, mostly with Shiba Inu keychains. And the Labubus? They looked like demented Teletubbies with rabbit ears. I didn’t get it.
In October, my mom started sending me videos of people in malls, camped outside their local Pop Marts in hopes of getting Labubus. She sent clips of people pushing their Labubus in strollers and taking them to the grocery store. She said that the dolls were ugly and that the customers were plebeian. I watched people giving their Labubus facials and matching their Labubus’ polyester coats to the shades of Birkin bags they shelled out over $20,000 for. I saw photos of Lisa and Rosie from BlackPink caressing their Labubus in a way that seemed infantile but also nostalgic. I liked how it seemed socially acceptable for grown women to fawn over ugly-ass toys. The hype was tapping into a part of my brain that had been dormant since childhood—a primal ability to get giddy over something as banal as a stuffed toy. And the more I looked at Labubus, the more they grew on me. I began looking into buying my own.
But it wasn’t that easy. I looked up the nearest Pop Mart and realized that I lived a half mile away from the Manhattan location. The next day I went in and saw Sold Out stickers plastered all over the Labubu display. The dolls stared at me through their sealed plastic cases, taunting me by being so close yet so out of reach. I asked one of the salespeople whether they had any more Labubus in stock. He calmly informed me that they were always sold out and that I’d need to order in advance online, then do a store pick-up. I was probably the 30th person to have asked that question during his shift, so I was impressed by his patience.
My mom flew to Singapore, her hometown, and sent me pictures of people walking through swanky malls on Orchard Road, Labubus dangling from their purses, fanny packs, and belt loops. In Singapore, my mom made three trips to Pop Mart and, on the third try, managed to sweet talk a salesgirl into getting a Labubu blind box from the back closet. She told me that I’d get to open it on Christmas Day.
A few weeks later, I saw a notification on Pop Mart’s Instagram story: They were re-stocking Labubus at 9pm that night. I waited for the launch to drop, logged into my Pop Mart account, and purchased one of the Have a Seat blind boxes. My mom texted me a few minutes later to inform me that she’d bought two blind boxes as well. She had wanted to get a complete set, but it was sold out. In just two months, my 65-year-old mother had gone from Labubu hater to Labubu hunter.
I texted my friend—a Chinese girl with an impressive handbag collection—about the Labubu drop. She promptly ordered an entire set for pick-up so that she could get her Labubus sooner, despite the fact that she had already ordered a set on Amazon that was scheduled for delivery in the new year.
Opening the Labubus was a momentous occasion. I signed up for TikTok just so that I could post my own unboxing video. Once I had the toy in hand, my Shiba Inu leapt up and tried to snatch it with her wolf fangs. I wrestled the Labubu out of her mouth. My mom was annoyed that I had opened up my toy without waiting for her, and later that night we went to Pop Mart together to pick up the Labubus from her order. My mom had me open them while she filmed, telling me that I should post a second unboxing video on TikTok.
As we admired the Labubus, my mom said they were cute. My husband called them “legitimately hideous” then proceeded to dangle one in front of our Shiba, narrowly it out of her slobbery mouth at the last second. I asked my mom which Labubus she wanted to keep and she said none of them.
“I just wanted the thrill of opening one up,” she said.
As I stared at my new Labubus, I couldn’t help but feel deflated. Was all the hype worth it, or was I just another basic Asian woman? The next day, I wore a Labubu charm on my purse, still delighted by their ugly-cuteness.
