I’m unsettled to read the latest news about Farrah Fawcett lying in critical condition, her survival in question. I mean, I get that we all die sooner or later. But it’s Farrah Fucking Fawcett. She was The Shit back in The Day. Wait, not The Day. My Day. I had a serious girl crush on her and POURED over photos of her in Tiger Beat magazine, and even saved my allowance to buy a magazine devoted to Farrah, complete with tips from her hairstylist detailing how to achieve the Farrah Fawcett Feathered Hairdo.
I was 11 or 12 back in the Charlie’s Angels heyday. I was chubby (Damn You, Cookies and Cakes), freckled and four-eyed, not to mention uncoordinated and gawky in my too-tall frame. I’d achieved all my height at 11 years old, and no one wants to be the tallest girl in class with B-cup boobies. Those come in handy later, but not at 11. At least not back in the 70’s.
With All That going on for me, is it any wonder I daydreamed about Farrah? I practiced my Angels Pose and high-kicks all over the house. Who wouldn’t want to absorb just a little bit of her – even if it was only in a few feathered strands of hair?
And now, cancer-stricken and possibly down for the count. Oh, Angel. I think I may bring back the feathered hair in honor of Jill Monroe. At the very least I’m going to do a high kick on my way to bed tonight.