I guess you may have heard by now that my namesake, Farrah Fawcett, passed away last week. I watched a few episodes of Charlie's Angels when I was a kid, The Burning Bed, and her small role in The Apostle, and I always thought it was funny to see her poster hanging in John Travolta's room at the beginning of Saturday Night Fever. The most I spoke of her was when I said her name on the telephone. On the phone, the S and F sound alike and most people think I say "Sarah" when I leave messages. So if I said "Farrah, you know, like Farrah Fawcett," then people knew what my name was.
I've known two other Farrahs, one who spelled her name with one R (the Arabic spelling) and one from my small-town high school. I've really liked my name. It's weird having your namesake pass on, however, because then you know that it really will someday happen to you too. The name has been unique, I guess not enough to escape death, but I've enjoyed typically being the only Farrah I know. When my sister and I collected Garbage Pail Kids, I was very proud to come across Farrah Fossil. It felt as though it was made for me.