Meet Ken: He is a beefy Asian man with 20/40 vision who frequently works out of doors.

And, meet Ken: He is a young record executive who expresses himself through bold sneaker attire while simultaneously being an African-American man of average build.

And, meet Ken: Against the better angels of his nature, he has bleached his hair peroxide blond, and now is determined to travel on an airplane in comfort and style.

And, meet Ken: He has a man bun, and that’s his whole thing.

In a condition of affairs at worst disastrous, at best depraved, Ken, Ken, Ken, and Ken are all dating the same woman.

Her name is Barbie.

When he debuted in 1961, Ken (legal name: Ken Carson) was a spindly, anemic fan of casual swimwear. Over the years, he has blossomed into a sculpted, perma-tanned icon of American masculinity. Even if you never played with Ken, his tiny footfall has reverberated through your life; he charges in early in the formative years of the fairer sex, setting an impossible standard for males against which you will be judged forever. Ken is the first man—or, technically, eunuch—many little girls will ever see nude. Consequently, he teaches young ladies that men are meant to have bodies like Olympic water-polo players. He’ll teach girls precisely how much taller than women men should be and (sort of) about the different ways men use the bathroom; Barbie’s Dreamhouse, a one-woman mega-mansion, features a single but quintessential nod to Ken’s existence: a toilet seat that lifts up. “That’s very important for Ken from a girl’s perspective,” says Michael Shore, Mattel’s head of global consumer insights (it means he watches kids play with dolls). “Because guys use toilets different from girls.”

Over time, Ken has been depicted as a rapping rocker (Rappin’ Rockin’ Ken), a doctor (Dr. Ken), and a sovereign of the Crystal Caves (King of the Crystal Caves Ken), but that is what he is reduced to: someone who uses the toilet in a mysterious way.

Ken is “nice,” they tell me over and over when I ask them to describe a doll’s personality: “a nice guy”; “a solid dude”; and, most damningly: “I picture him kind of Ryan Seacrest-y.”

That’s because Ken is the carefully calibrated ideal complement to Barbie—a blank, smiling man who does not threaten the stardom of the most intelligent, talented, rappin’ rockin’ princess astronaut in all of Malibu. Ken is “nice,” the members of the Barbie team will tell me over and over when I ask them to describe a doll’s personality: “a nice guy”; “a solid dude”; and, most damningly: “I picture him kind of Ryan Seacrest-y.”

Well, not anymore. Starting now, Mattel is re-imagining the all-American guy. He may not be as inspiring as an imaginary female solo homeowner or the first imaginary female president, but that doesn’t mean he can’t have a rich imaginary inner life. The decision to give him some depth marks a new chapter for men, and dolls who are men. From this day forward, Ken doesn’t always have to look like the most basic frat bro ever to get a B- in econ. He can be complicated, mysterious—maybe even vegan. No more Mr. Nice Ken. (Actually, he’ll still be very, very nice. “We want to make sure Ken reflects a friendly view of the world,” says Shore.)

One way to make Ken more of a real-live man, Mattel decided, is to put him through a dramatic physical transformation. And so, on the pink stiletto heels of last year’s announcement that Barbie would henceforth be available in taller, shorter, and, most sensationally, curvier versions, the company is adding two new Ken shapes to its roster and manufacturing them in a larger array of skin shades and hairstyles. There will be an “original”-size Ken with cornrows. A “slim” Ken with a fade. A mixed-race Ken with a man bun. Asian Kens. Latino Kens. A pale white Ken and a tan white Ken. A Ken who is wearing a watch. A Ken who is…“broad.”

And these are all the “real” Ken. Not friends of Ken, like the already extant Brad and Steven and commemorative-edition Batman doll “sculpted in the likeness of Ben Affleck.” Just Ken.

This branding is a radical attempt to alter kids’ psyches. Mattel has spent the better part of six decades teaching children that Barbie and Ken are white; that Barbie and Ken are sculpted like Hellenistic statues, only pornier, despite lacking genitals; that Barbie and Ken have friends—that some of their best imaginary friends are black—but that at the end of the day those friends are not quite A-list superstars like Barbie and Ken. But a few years ago, sales started to tumble. Millennial moms declared Barbie out of sync with their values. Suddenly incentivized to embrace au courant inclusivity, the toymaker had two choices: upend the entire Barbie universe by promoting all her friends to equal status or keep Barbie and Ken at the center of it and just make everyone—regardless of race, shape, or hairstyle—Barbie and Ken.

Think of this strategy as the ice-cream-ization of Barbie. There are an infinite number of flavors, but we refer to them all by the same general name; “ice cream” isn’t necessarily vanilla—and neither is Barbie’s boyfriend.

It’s an intriguing idea, nestled in a snake pit of complications. What about the modern man necessitates a Ken do-over? What are men—and Ken—for in 2017? How does a corporation select the shades of brown it will use to represent black people? Who decides how fat a fat Ken can be?

Mattel was willing to entertain my questions, asked with a Barbie’s confidence, but it wasn’t about to send me unreleased dolls in the mail. I had to go to the company headquarters if I wanted a look at these new Kens. And so, borne by the promise that I could spend a few minutes studying the prototypes as long as I did not photograph them nude, I set off for Ken’s native land: California, near the airport.