She might've easily opted for one-name fame, like Cher or Fabian. But she didn't. She didn't have to. Everyone knew who you were talking about whenever you said, "Farrah," regardless of whether you added the "Fawcett" or not.
If I'm utterly honest, I think I'd have to confess she was my first big crush. There was no other size of crush to have on her, with her huge dazzling smile and her even huger tousled tresses. She was from Texas, where we live in a perpetual state of bigness, after all.
She herself seemed bigger than life. And though she wasn't physically bigger than death (no one is), her final days spent valiantly fighting the beast called cancer sure left the impression of someone who, spiritually speaking, dwarfed the grim reaper.
Who'd have guessed it from skateboarding, crime-fighting, bra-spurning Jill Munro, girl detective?
She was an original, whose All-American-girl-next-door looks belied the complex drumbeat within that she seemed to follow fearlessly.
She was an artist. A mother. A Catholic. 62. She was sunny. Strong. Unpredictable. She often played a victim, but rarely was one.
She was much, much more than a thin red swimsuit, gleaming teeth and shining hair. And now that she's gone, we can all see it.
Say "hi" to "Charlie" for us, angel.