Farrah Fawcett Hair

A Sonnet

You begged me to do your hair like Farrah
with French tips and bliss down at the salon
with all those fashions that are dead and gone,
the tragedy of our parting era.
Bangs with blond curls framed your angel’s features,
far too young to know what sexy would be,
those girls were just cool working with Charlie
on secret missions with all God’s creatures.
Listening to your tapes on the eight track
driving with daddy round Arkansas sticks
sweetly tapping your toes to Stevie Knicks
Up all along the way, down there and back,
	a young girl playing with yesterday’s glam
	remembers the six million dollar fan.