You know you want it...    2005-10-06 17:58:00 ET
You know you need a haircut, or know someone who does, so:

I will do it in the homey, yet "Addams Family-esque", environment of my livingroom, or I can come to you for an extra fee.

Prices are a sliding scale, $30 and up, and a consultation in person or over the phone is reccomended, but not required. Color services are also available, but we have to have an in-person consultation before we can schedule the service and negotiate prices.

I have spent the last two years training at one of the best salons not only in Berkeley or CA, but one of the top 200 salons in the country: Peter Thomas Hair Design. Also, I am a licensed cosmetologist in the state of CA, and I'm just plain good at what I do.

If you prefer a more professional salon environment, head down to the corner and pick up an East Bay Express newspaper. Not only does this get you out of the house and cost you nothing, but inside, you will find a coupon for a $36 haircut (regularly $41) with me, Shannon, at Peter Thomas Hair Design. While you're at it, you might as well treat yourself to half price color at the salon as well. That's half price on any color service (no coupon necessary, promotion ends Jan. 28, 2006 to be replaced by a 25% reduced color offer).

You know you want it! Drop me a line when you're ready for your next haircut or color service!!

 The Horror of New Orleans    2005-09-18 10:36:04 ET
I heard my coworker telling this story at work to one of his clients. I later asked him where he'd heard about it, and he sent me to a page (, where there was a letter written about the survivors of New Orleans who were poor, and more to the point - not white. It's true it could just be a beautifully written piece of fiction, however, if the story is true, we will hear about it...I, personally, believe it happened.

Anyhow, without further ado, the story as told by one of the survivors:

"From: Smiffy
Subject: Damn
The following was sent by Tobias Wolff to his father, Robert Paul Wolff, professor in the Afro-American Studies Department at UMass Amherst, and contains an eyewitness account of two paramedic friends of Tobias who were trapped in New Orleans in the aftermath of Hurricane Katrina.

Sent: Tuesday, September 06, 2005 11:07 PM
Subject: Saramago's Blindness Revisited -- an eyewitness account from New Orleans

Hurricane Katrina-Our Experiences

Larry Bradshaw, Lorrie Beth Slonsky

Two days after Hurricane Katrina struck New Orleans, the Walgreen's store at the corner of Royal and Iberville streets remained locked. The dairy display case was clearly visible through the widows. It was now 48 hours without electricity, running water, plumbing. The milk, yogurt, and cheeses were beginning to spoil in the 90-degree heat. The owners and managers had locked up the food, water, pampers, and prescriptions and fled the City. Outside Walgreen's windows, residents and tourists grew increasingly thirsty and hungry.

The much-promised federal, state and local aid never materialized and the windows at Walgreen's gave way to the looters. There was an alternative. The cops could have broken one small window and distributed the nuts, fruit juices, and bottle water in an organized and systematic manner. But they did not. Instead they spent hours playing cat and mouse, temporarily chasing away the looters.

We were finally airlifted out of New Orleans two days ago and arrived home yesterday (Saturday). We have yet to see any of the TV coverage or look at a newspaper. We are willing to guess that there were no video images or front-page pictures of European or affluent white tourists looting the Walgreen's in the French Quarter.

We also suspect the media will have been inundated with "hero" images of the National Guard, the troops and the police struggling to help the "victims" of the Hurricane. What you will not see, but what we witnessed,were the real heroes and sheroes of the hurricane relief effort: the working class of New Orleans. The maintenance workers who used a fork lift to carry the sick and disabled. The engineers, who rigged, nurtured and kept the generators running. The electricians who improvised thick extension cords stretching over blocks to share the little electricity we had in order to free cars stuck on rooftop parking lots. Nurses who took over for mechanical ventilators and spent many hours on end manually forcing air into the lungs of unconscious patients to keep them alive. Doormen who rescued folks stuck in elevators.

Refinery workers who broke into boat yards, "stealing" boats to rescue their neighbors clinging to their roofs in flood waters. Mechanics who helped hot-wire any car that could be found to ferry people out of the City. And the food service workers who scoured the commercial kitchens improvising communal meals for hundreds of those stranded.

Most of these workers had lost their homes, and had not heard from members of their families, yet they stayed and provided the only infrastructure for the 20% of New Orleans that was not under water.

On Day 2, there were approximately 500 of us left in the hotels in the French Quarter. We were a mix of foreign tourists, conference attendees like ourselves, and locals who had checked into hotels for safety and shelter from Katrina. Some of us had cell phone contact with family and friends outside of New Orleans. We were repeatedly told that all sorts of resources including the National Guard and scores of buses were pouring in to the City. The buses and the other resources must have been invisible because none of us had seen them.

We decided we had to save ourselves. So we pooled our money and came up with $25,000 to have ten buses come and take us out of the City. Those who did not have the requisite $45.00 for a ticket were subsidized by those who did have extra money. We waited for 48 hours for the buses, spending the last 12 hours standing outside, sharing the limited water, food, and clothes we had. We created a priority boarding area for the sick, elderly and new born babies. We waited late into the night for the "imminent" arrival of the buses. The buses never arrived. We later learned that the minute the arrived to the City limits, they were commandeered by the military.

By day 4 our hotels had run out of fuel and water. Sanitation was dangerously abysmal. As the desperation and despair increased, street crime as well as water levels began to rise. The hotels turned us out and locked their doors, telling us that the "officials" told us to report to the convention center to wait for more buses. As we entered the center of the City, we finally encountered the National Guard. The Guards told us we would not be allowed into the Superdome as the City's primary shelter had descended into a humanitarian and health hellhole.

The guards further told us that the City's only other shelter, the Convention Center, was also descending into chaos and squalor and that the police were not allowing anyone else in. Quite naturally, we asked, "If we can't go to the only 2 shelters in the City, what was our alternative?" The guards told us that that was our problem, and no they did not have extra water to give to us. This would be the start of our numerous encounters with callous and hostile "law enforcement".

We walked to the police command center at Harrah's on Canal Street and were told the same thing, that we were on our own, and no they did not have water to give us. We now numbered several hundred. We held a mass meeting to decide a course of action. We agreed to camp outside the police command post. We would be plainly visible to the media and would constitute a highly visible embarrassment to the City officials. The police told us that we could not stay. Regardless, we began to settle in and set up camp. In short order, the police commander came across the street to address our group. He told us he had a solution: we should walk to the Pontchartrain Expressway and cross the greater New Orleans Bridge where the police had buses lined up to take us out of the City.

The crowed cheered and began to move. We called everyone back and explained to the commander that there had been lots of misinformation and wrong information and was he sure that there were buses waiting for us. The commander turned to the crowd and stated emphatically, "I swear to you that the buses are there."

We organized ourselves and the 200 of us set off for the bridge with great excitement and hope. As we marched pasted the convention center, many locals saw our determined and optimistic group and asked where we were headed. We told them about the great news. Families immediately grabbed their few belongings and quickly our numbers doubled and then doubled again. Babies in strollers now joined us, people using crutches, elderly clasping walkers and others people in wheelchairs. We marched the 2-3 miles tothe freeway and up the steep incline to the Bridge. It now began to pour down rain, but it did not dampen our enthusiasm.

As we approached the bridge, armed Gretna sheriffs formed a line across the foot of the bridge. Before we were close enough to speak, they began firing their weapons over our heads. This sent the crowd fleeing in various directions. As the crowd scattered and dissipated, a few of us inched forward and managed to engage some of the sheriffs in conversation. We told them of our conversation with the police commander and of the commander's assurances. The sheriffs informed us there were no buses waiting. The commander had lied to us to get us to move.

We questioned why we couldn't cross the bridge anyway, especially as there was little traffic on the 6-lane highway. They responded that the West Bank was not going to become New Orleans and there would be no Superdomes in their City. These were code words for if you are poor and black, you are not crossing the Mississippi River and you were not getting out of New Orleans.

Our small group retreated back down Highway 90 to seek shelter from the rain under an overpass. We debated our options and in the end decided to build an encampment in the middle of the Ponchartrain Expressway on the center divide, between the O'Keefe and Tchoupitoulas exits. We reasoned we would be visible to everyone, we would have some security being on an elevated freeway and we could wait and watch for the arrival of the yet to be seen buses.

All day long, we saw other families, individuals and groups make the same trip up the incline in an attempt to cross the bridge, only to be turned away. Some chased away with gunfire, others simply told no, others to be verbally berated and humiliated. Thousands of New Orleaners were prevented and prohibited from self-evacuating the City on foot.

Meanwhile, the only two City shelters sank further into squalor and disrepair. The only way across the bridge was by vehicle. We saw workers stealing trucks, buses, moving vans, semi-trucks and any car that could be hotwired. All were packed with people trying to escape the misery New Orleans had become.

Our little encampment began to blossom. Someone stole a water delivery truck and brought it up to us. Let's hear it for looting! A mile or so down the freeway, an army truck lost a couple of pallets of C-rations on a tight turn. We ferried the food back to our camp in shopping carts.

Now secure with the two necessities, food and water; cooperation, community, and creativity flowered. We organized a clean up and hung garbage bags from the rebar poles. We made beds from wood pallets and cardboard. We designated a storm drain as the bathroom and the kids built an elaborate enclosure for privacy out of plastic, broken umbrellas, and other scraps. We even organized a food recycling system where individuals could swap out parts of C-rations (applesauce for babies and candies for kids!).

This was a process we saw repeatedly in the aftermath of Katrina. When individuals had to fight to find food or water, it meant looking out for yourself only. You had to do whatever it took to find water for your kids or food for your parents. When these basic needs were met, people began to look out for each other, working together and constructing a community.

If the relief organizations had saturated the City with food and water in the first 2 or 3 days, the desperation, the frustration and the ugliness would not have set in.

Flush with the necessities, we offered food and water to passing families and individuals. Many decided to stay and join us. Our encampment grew to 80 or 90 people.

From a woman with a battery powered radio we learned that the media was talking about us. Up in full view on the freeway, every relief and news organizations saw us on their way into the City. Officials were being asked what they were going to do about all those families living up on the freeway? The officials responded they were going to take care of us. Some of us got a sinking feeling. "Taking care of us" had an ominous tone to it.

Unfortunately, our sinking feeling (along with the sinking City) was correct. Just as dusk set in, a Gretna Sheriff showed up, jumped out of his patrol vehicle, aimed his gun at our faces, screaming, "Get off the fucking freeway". A helicopter arrived and used the wind from its blades to blow away our flimsy structures. As we retreated, the sheriff loaded up his truck with our food and water.

Once again, at gunpoint, we were forced off the freeway. All the law enforcement agencies appeared threatened when we congregated or congealed into groups of 20 or more. In every congregation of "victims" they saw "mob" or "riot". We felt safety in numbers. Our "we must stay together" was impossible because the agencies would force us into small atomized groups.

In the pandemonium of having our camp raided and destroyed, we scattered once again. Reduced to a small group of 8 people, in the dark, we sought refuge in an abandoned school bus, under the freeway on Cilo Street. We were hiding from possible criminal elements but equally and definitely, we were hiding from the police and sheriffs with their martial law, curfew and shoot-to-kill policies.

The next days, our group of 8 walked most of the day, made contact with New Orleans Fire Department and were eventually airlifted out by an urban search and rescue team. We were dropped off near the airport and managed to catch a ride with the National Guard. The two young guardsmen apologized for the limited response of the Louisiana guards. They explained that a large section of their unit was in Iraq and that meant they were shorthanded and were unable to complete all the tasks they were assigned.

We arrived at the airport on the day a massive airlift had begun. The airport had become another Superdome. We 8 were caught in a press of humanity as flights were delayed for several hours while George Bush landed briefly at the airport for a photo op. After being evacuated on a coast guard cargo plane, we arrived in San Antonio, Texas.

There the humiliation and dehumanization of the official relief effort continued. We were placed on buses and driven to a large field where we were forced to sit for hours and hours. Some of the buses did not have air-conditioners. In the dark, hundreds if us were forced to share two filthy overflowing porta-potties. Those who managed to make it out with any possessions (often a few belongings in tattered plastic bags) we were subjected to two different dog-sniffing searches.

Most of us had not eaten all day because our C-rations had been confiscated at the airport because the rations set off the metal detectors. Yet, no food had been provided to the men, women, children, elderly, disabled as they sat for hours waiting to be "medically screened" to make sure we were not carrying any communicable diseases.

. This official treatment was in sharp contrast to the warm, heart-felt reception given to us by the ordinary Texans. We saw one airline worker give her shoes to someone who was barefoot. Strangers on the street offered us money and toiletries with words of welcome. Throughout, the official relief effort was callous,inept, and racist. There was more suffering than need be. Lives were lost that did not need to be lost.

Eric Schocket
Associate Professor of American Literature
Hampshire College "

 Piece of Cake?    2005-09-13 07:15:24 ET

While I was doing the practical, I totally thought I would fail, too, haha. Now, for anyone who's gone through it, please don't hate me. I got the EASIEST test out there...for me, anyway...which included Makeup instead of a facial, which for anyone who knows me knows i was stoked when I saw that on my "schedule"...The gods were totally looking out for me yesturday. Also, somehow I managed to not have to do an artificial nail application, *AND* I only had to do 3 pincurls, not 15. The examiner practically ignored me the entire time, and when she did come check, she was impressed with me...I only messed up 3 times...other than not being able to finish 3 of my we see a pattern here? I was also at station #3...hrm...

First I messed up with the thermal press & curl...which is the pressing comb and marcel iron. Both of these are old fashioned in that you don't plug them in. You put them into this little oven thing and they heat up that way. My mistake was putting the oven on my station's counter, and not on my little table thing (it was too close to the shelves and other stuff that could be affected by heat). Then, at one point, I thought I had rinsed out a chemical straightener completely, but I hadn't, and then the final time was one of my perm rods wasn't wrapped correctly.

I didn't finish my soft curl perm...I forgot to shampoo him after she took the rods out. I didn't finish my pedicure because I took so much time on the soft curl perm, and I didn't finish my makeup, cuz I got hung up on my fingerwaves.

Amazingly enough, she either didn't notice the burn on my hand or didn't wasn't an open wound when I started, but the blister popped midway through the test. Because I didn't want to loose time in putting on a bandaid, I didn't bother. She wasn't paying attention to me much, anyway...there were other people who were taking her attention most of the test, although she did come watch me a couple of times, thankfully, it was mostly at my best moments, haha...and usually when I was wearing a glove, or when my thumb was tucked out of the way while I was doing the haircut.

It was funny, seemed like the two main people I dealt with were especially nice to me. The examiner, who is this super sweet no-nonsense-but-I-know-this-is-stressful-and-there's-no-reason-to-be-mean older lady who looked like she walked out of 1952, and the Supervisor, who's the one who checked us all in and gave us our orientation. It felt like someone had called them that morning and said "This girl is coming really nice to her."

Other cool/wierd things besides the series of 3's earlier is that when I rented my kit, I also rented a study guide, which the rental lady had organized by numbers...mine was #6-my lucky number. Also, when I got to the test, they gave us all a little piece of paper to write our name and our file number on...all of which had a little number scrawled into the upper left hand corner...wanna take a guess at what my number was? That's right...#6.

Anywho...gonna go get ready for work...I have to go get my license laminated before I start, YEEEEEEEHAW!

 State Board Tomorrow    2005-09-11 14:25:45 ET
Eeps... so I go take my Cosmetology test at state board tomorrow for my license. I'm a little nervous, but I know my stuff so well I could do it in my sleep...backwards. There are only a couple of things I'm worried about (curling +flat iron because I burned myself today ironing my clothes, and if I accidentally burn myself in the same spot, I don't know if I can keep from yelping... and pedicure because my boyfriend's toenails are really wierd looking.)

Yeah, so I burned myself today ironing my clothes :P It was pretty sizzled and everything...and now it's this big white splotch on my thumb, which actually isn't as sore as I thought it would be. It was ugly...I burned my thumb...I ran cool water over it...sat back down to finish, and IMMEDIATELY burned myself AGAIN in the SAME spot. When I finally finished, I made myself a cold compress and went outside to smoke and let my hand cool down. I'm sitting there minding my own business, and a bunch of yellowjackets smell the water and start coming after it! UGH...ran inside as fast as i could. Stupid yellowjackets.

Anyhow, in other news, Ashby and I got into BADRAP's Pit Ed Classes...basically, it's obedience training specifically designed for the breed. I had to miss the first class two weeks ago because I didn't find out in time to mark out at work. So we went to the second class. OMG, it was HELL. I felt like I was at a car race, and my car was the only one that wouldn't start. I couldn't get her to look at me. The treats I brought as a lure weren't working, cuz she decided that day that she wasn't so crazy about week and a LOT of work later, she was FABULOUS! It was the best feeling. We were both having fun, and we were in it together. She was making really great eye contact and trully listening to me...With 10 or so other pit bulls around her...course that may have had something to do with the chopped up bits of fried steak I had in my pocket. Nevertheless, we had eachother captivated for the entire class. It was so wonderful. We have some homework, which we will start working on tomorrow when I get back from state board. She's really starting to see me as her leader, which is a really important step. Silly monkey...She can be a princess all she long as she knows who her queen is (ahem...that would be me, thankyou).

Whelp...I don't have much else to write for now...Gonna go play solitaire until Dylan gets here to dogsit :P

 Testy, Testy, Testy    2005-08-25 21:40:29 ET
I got my test date for state board today. Monday, Sept. 12. eep.

Waylon is quizzing me hardcore, and I am doing much better than I thought I would. Hopefully come test day I won't forget anything.

My brain feels like mush, and I could tell you how to do a jerry curl in my sleep.

Anyhow, that is all from Shanland for now...back to the books I go.

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