Lizzie Skurnik's new book on classic teen novels from our past, Shelf Discovery comes out next month. What better woman to weigh in on the intersection of twin adolescent rites of passage: the bat mitzvah and the Farrah 'do. This also is a reminder: Please send us your Farrah haircut pictures to doublex.slate+farrah@gmail.com. Here's Lizzie's description of the lovely photo you see included in this post:

My mother brought me to a black salon RIGHT before my Bat Mitzvah (like the day), [where the hairdresser] gave me what I can only describe as a church haircut instead of just straightening it. That took months to grow out. Then my aunt, who delighted in making a begrudging white salon cut my grandmother's hair, brought me to THAT salon and they gave me this Farrah cut, which at the time was only still sported by matrons in N.J. Hairstyles pressed unsuccessfully on biracial hair may be an unexamined outpost in the land of cultural contructivism.

Tags: 70s, bat mitzvahs, biracial hair, farrah fawcett, farrah fawcett hair, feathered hair

I was 10 years old when Charlie’s Angels debuted in 1976. This is my school picture from that year, my aggravatingly straight and unstyleable hair awkwardly plastered into the style that was referred to, at least in Texas, as “wings.” Wearing your hair in wings, with a middle part and plenty of hairspray, was near-obligatory in the fifth grade at Helotes Elementary. Even the boys, at least those aspirationally cool enough to have left behind the childish mushroom bowl cut, feathered and sprayed their hair. When the girls played “Angels” at school or at each others’ houses (tossing our wings, pointing imaginary guns and shouting “Freeze!” in breathy voices), I usually took the part of Kate Jackson’s Bree. (She was the "brainy one.” Now there’s a low bar: The brainy Charlie’s Angel.) But the beautiful, athletic, popular girls, the ones who could run fast and had hair that feathered right (and who lacked the pink plastic glasses and epic overbite on view in this photo), got to be Farrah Fawcett's golden and gleaming Jill Munroe.

I can’t agree with Ellen that Farrah will be remembered only for her hairstyle. She did an admirable job of reinventing her career in midlife with the play and movie The Burning Bed, which brought a lot of attention to the domestic violence issues she advocated for later in life. And I’ve always been touched by her turbulent but enduring partnership with Ryan O’Neal, who was by her bedside when she died (and who told the press this week, heartbreakingly, that he’d finally ask her to marry him “when she’s able to say yes”). But since Farrah’s iconic legacy was her glorious, ridiculous, leonine mane (and the unfortunate imitations it inspired), I think it’s fitting that we mourn her with a photo gallery of attempted Farrah-dos gone by. Readers, please dig through your yellowing snapshots and contribute! Don’t leave Hanna and me alone in our winged shame! Send photos to doublex.slate+farrah@gmail.com.

Tags: farrah fawcett, feathers, look alike pics

This seems to be the week for obituary headlines I hope I never have. On the New York Times homepage now, Farrah Fawcett is called “A Sex Symbol Who Wanted to Be More.” Pretty pathetic, but not quite as bad as the treatment Ed McMahon got on the hompeage on Tuesday: “Quintessential sidekick.” (The headline on the article itself isn't much kinder, calling him the "top second banana.") Sidekick ... who wanted to be more? The headline didn’t specify, but one can only assume that "second banana" is not anyone’s first aspiration.

So in the spirit of Emily Yoffe's excellent poll on whether you'd rather be the wife of Sanford or Spitzer (which is generating some thoughtful replies in the comments section), I’ll offer another “which is worse”: Would you rather your obituary call you a sex symbol who wanted to be more, or a quintessential sidekick? Which ranks lower on the degrading scale? Now I'm wondering what they'll say about Michael Jackson, hopefully something a little less depressing. Place your vote in the comments section below.

Tags: ed mcmahon, farrah fawcett, obituary

In the wake of Farrah Fawcett's death this morning, thoughts turn to the superficial. Ellen has already focused on her hair—those "feathered bangs, feathered layers, feathers, feathers, feathers"—but what about her teeth? Those shiny, snow-white teeth? Or her endless, hairless legs? All of these assets were duly capitalized upon by America's beauty product industry, leading to a few spectacular TV ads from the '70s.

In this one for Ultra-Brite toothpaste, Farrah sits on a lawn and innocently recites her mother's advice—"sit up straight, eat all your vegetables, and stay out of small foreign cars"—before that sparkle in her eye turns mischevious and she turns to "Joey," who we now see is lying beside her, and tells him that her mother never told her about Ultra-Brite. The scene ends with Joey escorting Farrah to his hot red car, and kissing her on the cheek; she winks, then flashes an ultra-bright smile that is clearly too sexy for her own good.

In this ad for Noxzema shaving cream, a mini-Farrah dances suggestively in a giant male palm. Someone sprays shaving cream into the palm as she writhes to the chorus, "Great balls of comfort!"

That's downright tame, compared to this one, in which Farrah sings the jingle "Let Noxzema cream your face" while sensually applying shaving cream to NFL quarterback Joe Namath's chin. This clip begins with the soon-to-be-creamed Namath creepily exclaiming, "I'm so excited! I'm gonna get creamed!" and ends with him telling Farrah, "You've got a great pair of hands."

It's ironic that, in a contemporary advertising world that equates sandwiches to blow jobs, this 30-year-old commercial would probably be too much for American consumers to handle. But then, there's always been something about Farrah and her feathers ...

Tags: farrah fawcett, noxema, ultra-brite

Farrah Fawcett paid dearly for being a beauty queen with great hair and very white teeth. In the beginning it must have been fun to be a contestant on the Dating Game, marry a 6-million-dollar man, become an Angel (then an ex-angel), and have her own personal complicated love story with Oliver Barrett IV. But through it all, she was more of an image than a real person: a one-dimensional cover girl whose real life fell short in so many ways. Being a former sex symbol must have been difficult. Illness and addiction don’t have to follow, but objectification can’t be that great for the soul.

I see her great love, Ryan O’Neal was about to marry her before her death. He announced it to Barbara Walters on 20/20. How romantic. I bet the nuptials would have made the cover of People despite the editor Larry Hackett all but telling the New York Times recently the next Fawcett cover would merit a black border. I guess she ran out of time for a wedding but O’Neal honored her spirit in the end. He did what caring folks do when a loved one dies. He called a tabloid.

Tags: charlie's angels, farrah fawcett, ryan o'neal

Have you ever feathered? Feathered extravagantly? Feathered desperately, in an effort to give off the Farrah-mone? If so, please e-mail photos of yourself to doublex.slate+farrah@gmail.com, and we will post the best ones on the blog. I’ll offer myself up first for ridicule. Here is me, on what must have been my 12th birthday (I believe there’s a Go-Go’s cassette in that stack). That poor sap with the 'fro is my older brother. Include your own Farrah memories. Here are mine.

When I was growing up in Jamaica, Queens, an immigrant ghetto if ever there was one, Farrah was America. My brother dated only Puerto Rican girls although he, too, had Farrah up on his wall. To me, personally, Farrah represented both liberation and frustration. My Israeli mother started blow-drying my hair when I was 5. (Watch this video for an explanation.) Feathering at least gave me a method to blow-dry my own way. But if you look closely, you can see it never really worked. With every rise in humidity, the Semitic curls betray me.

Tags: farrah fawcett, feathers, look alike pics

For a boy growing up in the 1970s and ‘80s, Farrah Fawcett was a dreamgirl; but for a girl growing up then, she was a nightmare. Everyone knew that she was the quintessential Charlie’s angel. She was the prototype. Jaclyn Smith was the brunette. Kate Jackson was the “brainy” one. But Farrah, she was perfect—pretty, blonde, and with a gorgeous body, posterized in a bathing suit and adorning every teenage boy’s bedroom wall. I remember the first time I saw that poster at Spencer Gifts and was shocked on two accounts: that the poster was so overtly sexual, and that a human could actually have a body that looked like that. When Farrah left the show, the producers tried to replace her with a series of other, lesser blondes: Cheryl Ladd, Shelley Hack, but no one compared to Farrah. She even had an unusual and angelic name.

And her hair. “The Farrah” was to the ‘70s and ‘80s what “the Rachel” would be to the ‘90s. Farrah’s long, blond, feathered hair was an unkempt shag—I remember adults complaining that she ought to comb her hair—yet it followed very specific rules of layering and it got a nation of girls hooked on feathering, a trend in hair that would go on for years and years and years and years. In my junior high school and high school, one was judged on how well one’s hair could “feather.” Feathered bangs, feathered layers, feathers, feathers, feathers, and wings. Farrah was the one to live up, to measure yourself against.

I had curly hair. Feathering was an impossibility. Maybe this was just as well. Farrah got older, her flower faded, she kept the hairdo, she kept acting in more and more obscure roles, was replaced by an endless parade of young beauties.

As one colleague said, "What does it mean to have your whole life amount to a hairstyle? Bums me out."

Fortunately, my hair has never cooperated enough for me to find out.

Tags: Farrah Fawcett; hair; the Farrah; the Rachel