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 firstname.lastname@example.org , 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.
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