Unless you are living on a deserted island, you can’t miss the fact that the “Barbie” movie has just opened. In all honesty, I haven’t given Barbie a lot of thought in recent years. Yes, I remember my Barbies well and I have bought some for family children as permitted (not all moms allowed but that is a different topic for a different day). The joy of Barbie for me was not about creating scenarios for her, although I did, but in her dizzying array of clothes. I loved the outfits, I loved the accessories, I loved the way in which she always looked perfect.

And it occurred to me recently that Barbie’s perfection was what my father always wanted me to achieve and, in fairness, himself to achieve. I am not at all saying that he would have endorsed a plastic surgeon’s re-creation of a plastic doll. But rather that he was focused, and a bit consumed, on appearances that met his exacting standards.

I won’t pretend to know why this was so important to him. Perhaps it was growing up in deprivation, coming to the United States as a teenager and trying to fit in. Perhaps it was his essential insecurity that caused him to create his own confidence by always “looking the part.” I don’t know and I will never know but I suspect it was a combination of all of those things.

He was always concerned about the way he looked. He cut the lawn in a shirt and tie and picked us up at school in a suit and overcoat, even though he had been retired for many years. I have a vivid image of him checking his face in the mirror that hung next to the refrigerator in our kitchen, making certain his grooming was as impeccable as always.

He had closets and closets full of suits, all custom made, all perfectly hung on their special hangers. When I was a kid, I used to go with him to the tailor and I truly thought, for a very long time, that Mr. Cabelka was actually a member of our family. He was on my Bat Mitzvah invitation list and the necklace he gave me still sits in my jewelry box.

Dad had the same standards for me. In fact, far more than for my brother. He would insist of trimming my bangs when I was a kid and I stood on a chair for what seemed like hours as he snipped and straightened and snipped and straightened. He was the one who bought all of our clothes when we were little, frilly dresses for me and preppy vests and shirts for my brother.

In high school, after walking home from school, I would come into the house with windblown hair and Dad would ask me why my hair wasn’t combed, causing me to smile at him and shake my head. And in college I learned how to make it all work for me. I’d come home for a weekend in my most worn out jeans and I was pretty much guaranteed to be handed his credit card.

When my mother died, I didn’t own a suitable black dress. I was 25, a new mom and, in truth, deep in denial about her clearly declining health. Before we got in the car to drive the 11 hours to where I grew up, I dragged myself to the local department store and found a black dress and jacket. I knew, with total certainty, what Dad would expect me to look like and wear and I did not want to disappoint or upset him. I still remember standing in the dressing room, the tears I’d kept in check in the store, streaming down my face.

Apples and trees of course. Dad’s emphasis on the importance of appearance has become mine, perhaps less than his, perhaps more. How I look and how I am perceived matter to me. Caring about that is as much a part of me as breathing. Am I Barbie perfect? No, and I will never be. But I do understand the lure of perfection and the way in which that effort, at least for me, is a part of my full heart.