"I Made a Copy of a Labubu Doll — It Was Easier Than You Think"

I’ve always loved the charm and quirkiness of designer toys, but one figure in particular had captured my heart: the Labubu doll. With its mischievous grin, oversized ears, and wild hair, Labubu looked like something straight out of a dream—or a nightmare, depending on your perspective. The problem? The real ones were either sold out or insanely expensive on resale sites. We're talking $200 and up for a six-inch toy.

At first, I just stared longingly at photos online. Then I had a wild thought: Could I make one myself?

I’m not an artist. I’ve never sculpted anything beyond a sad little clay bowl in grade school. But I figured, why not try? Worst case, I waste a weekend. Best case, I end up with my very own DIY Labubu.

So, I gathered supplies. I went to a local art store and picked up:

Polymer clay (the kind you bake in the oven),

A set of small sculpting tools (nothing fancy, just some plastic ones),

Acrylic paints and tiny brushes,

A wire frame for structure,

Some fluffy yarn for hair.


It all cost me around $30—way less than the real thing. I set up at my kitchen table with a YouTube tutorial playing on repeat. The artist wasn’t even making Labubu specifically, but their method of building a figure from wire and clay gave me the foundation I needed.

I started with a basic skeleton made from aluminum wire. Think of it like a tiny stick figure with thicker limbs. This would hold the shape of the doll while I sculpted around it. Covering it with clay felt like putting muscle on a bone—it began to look like a creature.

The hardest part was the face. Labubu’s expression is iconic. It’s sly and weirdly cute at the same time. Mine… looked like he’d just smelled something awful. But I kept going. I realized something quickly: perfection wasn’t the goal. I wasn’t recreating Labubu down to the last detail. I was making my own version of him, and that gave me freedom.

By the time I finished the sculpt and baked it in the oven, I was exhausted. The doll stood about six inches tall and looked like a haunted squirrel. But I loved him.

Painting was the fun part. I mixed different shades of gray and brown to give him some texture, painted the eyes glossy black, and gave the teeth a cartoonish shine. For the hair, I glued on tufts of yarn and fluffed them out with a comb. It looked surprisingly close to the original.

When I stepped back and looked at the finished doll, I laughed. Not because it was bad, but because I’d actually done it. My little DIY Labubu sat proudly on my shelf, slightly crooked ears and all, looking every bit as mischievous as the real ones.

I didn’t expect what happened next. I posted a photo on Instagram with the caption: “Made my own Labubu because I couldn’t afford the real deal 😂”. Within an hour, I had comments like:

“Wait… you MADE this???”

“Can you make me one??”

“This is actually better than the original!”


That gave me an idea. I started documenting the process more seriously. I took step-by-step photos, shared tips, and even recorded a timelapse of my next attempt. My second DIY Labubu was smoother, more refined. I started giving them personalities—one had a tiny backpack, another wore little goggles.

What started as a personal weekend project turned into a full-blown hobby. People began requesting custom versions. I never sold any (out of respect for the original artist, Kasing Lung), but I made a few as gifts for friends who were also fans of Labubu.

The best part? I learned something unexpected along the way: creativity doesn’t require permission. You don’t need to be a professional sculptor or have an art degree to make something meaningful. You just need to try. Sure, my first doll was a little lopsided. But it was mine. It had personality, quirks, and most importantly, a story.

I also realized how accessible creativity has become. The internet is full of tutorials, communities, and affordable materials. You can learn almost anything with a bit of curiosity and patience.

Today, my handmade Labubu army sits on a shelf next to my computer. Every time I glance at them, I’m reminded of that first moment—of choosing to create instead of consume, of making something with my hands instead of just scrolling and wishing.

So if there’s a designer toy you love but can’t afford, or a piece of art you admire from afar, I have one piece of advice: try making your own. It doesn’t have to be perfect. In fact, the imperfections might be the best part.

Because sometimes, the copy has more heart than the original.