When I was little, I wanted to be Malibu Barbie. To my nine year old self, Malibu Barbie was the epitome of beauty and elegance. I’d dress her up in her wetsuit bikini and spend hours idolising her with her long crimped hair, bright blue eyes and mega tan.

Life was perfect for Malibu Barbie. My Ken doll fancied her more than all the other Barbies (even Disco Barbie!). He’d swing by in his red Ferrari and take her to a nightly ball, frosted lipstick and all. Dancing was followed by a cup of tea by the fire in his mini mansion, ending with a romantic kiss goodnight on the porch (boring I know, but, come on, I was nine).

I thought ‘If my life ends up half as amazing as Malibu Barbie’s, I will be the happiest girl in the world’.

It was a bit of a stretch for a freckly, brown haired girl from Australia’s Gold Coast. Malibu Barbie I am not.

Call it a self-fulfilling prophecy, but two of my closest friends are textbook California blondes, though neither of them hail from the region. With a few blonde highlights and a couple of weeks at the beach, they channel a Charlie’s Angels era Farrah Fawcett.

I’d always been jealous of their tans and sunshine-y blondeness, my Malibu Barbie complex in all its glory. I imagined what it might be like to slip into that butterscotch skin, just for a day.

They changed my whole outlook on life, those Farrahs. I’ll never forget the day one Farrah looked me up and down, sighed with melancholy and said “I wish I had freckles, my skin’s so boring”. There was further proof when the other Farrah dyed her hair dark brown. And it didn’t end there.

Someone wanted freckles? What?! Someone wanted brown hair? Get OUT! I’d never imagined that anyone would want anything other than the perfect tan and cascading blonde locks – everything I’d ever wanted.

But that’s where I was wrong. Everyone, it seems, has a Malibu Barbie complex in one way or another. I don’t know a single female who hasn’t thought, ‘if only I had that hair/house/job/boyfriend/butt, I’d be happy/famous/richer/better’. And I’m sure the Farrahs will be shocked to know that I wanted their ‘perfect’ hair and skin all these years. Gorgeous souls that they are, I’m sure they’ve never thought of themselves as perfect in any way. Sometimes it’s difficult to see yourself with other people’s eyes.

Maybe it’s getting older, but I’m starting to like the things that make me unique – freckles and all. If I think about it, there are lots of things in my life that people could be jealous of – and there’s not a single person I know who couldn’t say the same thing about themselves.

The grass might seem greener ‘over there’, but I’m sure you’d find that after all that effort to get over that bloody fence, life’s not any happier.

Looking back, Malibu Barbie’s life probably wasn’t so perfect after all. I mean, she lived in a share house with 15 other tanned, anorexic, vacant blondes. And that unnatural smile? Prozac for sure. She had to put up with a boyfriend who was self obsessed, unemployed and whose tight plastic knickers probably made him impotent, not to mention a little less than fresh down there. All that time in the California sun and MB’s probably got a melanoma or two, not to mention the heat styling damage she would have after 60 years of crimping. Don’t even get me started on the perils of wearing the same wetsuit bikini, day in, day out.

Malibu Barbie’s life – like many of those we envy – might have looked good on the outside. But, like I said, Malibu Barbie I am not. If I’d been born a Malibu Barbie blonde, would my life have been better? I don’t think so – different for sure, but not better.

My life might not be perfect, I may not have the perfect tan, a boyfriend with a Ferrari and perfectly combed hair, or access to a log fire in a mini-mansion. But my life is all mine. And you know what, Malibu Barbie? I never thought I’d say this, but I wouldn’t swap lives with you, after all.