The Barbie Phone is plastic, fantastic, and impractical

The Barbie Phone, much like the doll it pays tribute to, is a thing of beauty. But like that doll whose proportions, historically, are impossible, the Barbie Phone just isn’t built for the modern world.

Even if the ultra-feminine aesthetic isn’t your thing — and it’s not really mine — you have to hand it to the Barbie flip phone. From the box it comes in, to the interchangeable back plates, rhinestone stickers, and Barbie-fied interface, it’s a delight. The charger and battery are both pink, though they’re a lighter shade than Mattel’s trademarked Barbie Pink (Pantone 219). The phone says “Hi Barbie!” when you turn it on. It’s the definition of committing to the bit.

The breezy fun of the Barbie aesthetic, Pantone 219 or otherwise, is at odds with the actual experience of using the phone. It’s based on one of HMD’s feature phones, and it runs an operating system called KaiOS. The phone is designed for basic connectivity — texting, calling, emails — and even includes a web browser.

According to HMD, in addition to being cute, the nostalgic design and limited feature set are supposed to encourage you to disconnect and spend time with your friends IRL. There are a series of “Barbie Tips” in the phone’s menus that advise you on this point. 

“No need to give up the smartphone entirely,” reads Barbie Tip 1. “Find a balance between your smartphone and your Barbie Phone.” Barbie Tip 6 is titled “DreamHouse™️ Rule” and encourages you to “Make tech-free zones in your own DreamHouse. More room for fun!” Incidentally, Mattel says it sells a Barbie DreamHouse every two minutes. The DreamHouse retails for $199.99; the Barbie Phone is $129.99.

The idea of popping my SIM card in the Barbie phone and running away for a weekend of digital detoxing with my besties sounds great. The reality isn’t so easy. Have you ever tried to enter your Google account password with an alphanumeric keypad? Do you know how to find the curly brackets in T9? I have and I do, thanks to the Barbie Phone, and I don’t wish that on anyone. Typing out messages with predictive text is more tedious than I remember; if I used this phone regularly, I’d probably call people a lot more.

Aside from texting, some of the features of this feature phone just didn’t work properly for me. I successfully synced my Google calendar, but my appointments appear on the wrong days for reasons I can’t discern. I couldn’t get the FM radio app to recognize the wired earbuds I plugged into the 3.5mm jack. The web browser is painfully slow and refuses to render The Verge in any usable form, though I realize I am probably the only person who would attempt to read The Verge on the Barbie Phone.

The delight I felt when I first unboxed the Barbie Phone was definitely fading. Even the front of the phone, which is mostly covered by a mirror, looked a lot less charming covered in my own fingerprints and smudges. And I guess having a mirror on the front of your phone is cute, because you can frame up your selfies and check your teeth for pieces of kale.

But you know when it’s not cute? Having to look at your own face every time you check for a notification. This is a kind of existential dilemma that Barbie doesn’t have to endure, because Barbie’s makeup is pre-applied and she’s perpetually twenty two or whatever. I don’t want to see my face when I’m checking texts, four espressos deep on a Tuesday morning with nary a drop of concealer under my eyes.

Barbie’s world is a dream. Unfortunately, the world in which the Barbie Phone lets me escape the drudgery of modern connectivity also seems to be a dream. Sure, it let me take a little vacation from my smartphone and still text my friends. But mostly, it just replaced the annoyances of using an ultra-connected device with different annoyances.

Someone more committed to using T9 could probably have an enjoyable time with the Barbie Phone. Otherwise, this is just a neat collectible item; something to take out of the box and play with for a while, but ultimately leave in a drawer. Kind of like a doll.

Photography by Allison Johnson / The Verge