As far as I am concerned, Katherine Hepburn was the quintessential woman; the type of woman who could pull on a pair of stove-pipe, worsted-wool trousers under a form-fitting, man-style vest while puffing on the cool end of an unfiltered cigarette and still be the classiest woman in a room filled with skirts.
Farrah Fawcett was no Katherine Hepburn. When “Charlie’s Angels” jiggled across our television sets in 1976, I immediately dismissed the toothy blonde who would soon make history for no greater talent than being blessed with good hair. Kate Jackson caught my eye, at first. Rail-thin and smart as a whip, I loved the earthy gravel in her voice as she shared her unfailing common sense with Bosley, Charlie, and the girls. Later, I grew enamored of Jaclyn Smith. Equal in intelligence to Sabrina, Kelly retained a soft, warm femininity, and she knew how to use it. As I watched the three of them cavort through the mean streets of Los Angeles, Farrah’s character, Jill, elicited nothing more from me than an occasional groan at her rendition of a bubble-headed blonde.
She did some good work in the eighties. I still carry around an image from the movie “Extremities”, in which her character restrains her attacker, caging him under a table before calling her friends for help. The strength of her performance left me wondering if her earlier portrayal of a vacuous bimbo was just as masterful.
Then came her incoherent interview with Letterman, which she followed with a reality show featuring long-time companion Ryan O’Neal. I watched one episode, and was sure I could feel myself leaking brain cells as I watched. But watch I did. It was a train wreck, and it’s always hard to turn away from a good train wreck.
Several weeks ago, purely by chance, I saw Farrah on television again. Her famous mane had been shorn, and her skin looked weathered. Her eyes carried age and pain, but her voice remained unchanged as she read from her journal, chronicling her battle with anal cancer.
Much has been written since the program aired, and especially since her death, about Farrah’s decision to share her journey. But, I’m glad I watched. The hour was filled with images of torturous medical procedures, stomach-churning rides in limousines, and long passages of prose written by Farrah in anticipation of the time when she wouldn’t be around to speak her words. But, this is not what remains with me.
I remember the love; the love rained upon her by her companion, Ryan O’Neal, the love she inspired in her care-takers, the love she felt for her errant son, and, her love of self.
Farrah Fawcett was a simple girl from Texas who was blessed with great teeth and better hair, and in the end, none of that was important. In the end, it was all about strength and love.
And, I’m grateful for the lesson.
Are We There Yet? 
