So Thursday we were all anticipating if we were going to do anything of educational value, or get to assist again out on the floor, when the owner of the school walked into our classroom and said that she'd be teaching us for the evening. We were pretty taken aback, as we never really get to see her for more than a few moments other than when she would poke her head into our classroom to say hello. Our evening turned out to be one of the most informative classes all of us has experienced so far.
Ms. Ellie owns the school with her husband and is a former hairstylist. She has an enormous enthusiasm for her craft, and a wealth of information to share. She teaches in the style of a "regular" teacher, lecturing non-stop but with some interesting hands on material to not let it get too monotonous.
Our class focused on developing an eye for body and facial structure, what key elements about both of these play into the appropriate look that would most benefit the client, and which styles would not. We then went on a search through the school to find examples of these different body types, examining both the staff and the students to stress the physical features that a student can observe in a person.
The most interesting aspect of the evening, was when Ms. Ellie had each of us sit up on a stool, covered our hair so that only our facial structure was visible, and we had to determine the shape of each others' face, the distance between key areas of the face to determine what was the prominent feature, and what hairstyle would then be appropriate to the facial structure. Then we analyzed each others' skin tone and eyes to determine if they were classified as "warm" (reflecting yellow, orange or red), or "cold" (reflecting blue, green or violet). We looked at the hair to see if the color that the person was wearing coordinated to the tones of the eyes and the skin. I was amazed when Ms. Ellie determined that my hair color was too warm for my skin and eye tone, and held up a swatch of hair in a shade of blonde I would never have considered, and saw how perfect it would be on my head, all by taking into account the warmness and coldness of a person's skin and eyes and how to balance the two. Fascinating.
I am considering talking with whomever is in charge to see if I can begin to attend school on Monday mornings and Fridays to expedite this process. There isn't a day that goes by where I just cannot stomach all the paperwork at work anymore. If I have to double up on homework that will be fine. Day classes are 6 hours long and they attend for 10 months. Evenings are 4 hours, and we attend for 18 months. It's a big difference. If I can get it somewhere in between, that would be acceptable. We'll see.
Saturday, January 30, 2010
Thursday, January 28, 2010
12. NO TEACHERS
For the past 2 nights we have not had a teacher. One is out after having surgery, another has pneumonia, and another lost a family member. That left Mr. Sanchez to run the salon floor with the senior students and unable to give us classroom instruction. The only good part is that our exam is postponed. I haven't been feeling too well for the past few days and studying wasn't high on my list.
On Tuesday night Ms. Pauly had us sit with the senior class for an inservice on haircare for African-American hair. This is so foreign to me, as I never realized the challenge that African-Americans have with their hair and scalp. The school has a large African-American population as well as numerous customers who come to the school's salon for their hair care, so learning these processes is important. However, realistically, though a client can only request the same student up to 3 times, I cannot see an African-American client wanting their hair done by a caucasion. I know that I sure as heck wouldn't if I were in their place. But this remains to be seen.
Wednesday evening was much more interesting, as I was selected to work as an assistant to a senior student named Jeanie. Jeanie is an interesting looking woman, probably around 31-32, who is originally from South America. Her facial structure looks almost masculine, but when up close, it actually looks as though she might have had reconstructive surgery due to an accident. She has this magnificent mane of thick, curly hair.
Right off the bat, Jeanie had me assist her. She taught me how to look up a client in the computer system, find the formula used on their hair on their prior visit (if there was one), and mix the color with the developer while measuring out everything using a digital scale. Luckily we had a teenaged girl, who was thrilled to have 2 people work on her hair.
The project was for natural looking highlights to the hair plus a haircut and new style that required cutting off about 4" of hair. She taught me how to part the hair, how much hair to take for each foil, and actually let me do a few. Again, for someone as precise as a surgeon when I do things, I felt like a spaz.
While the color was depositing (we used color, not bleach), I picked her brain. She was a wealth of information as she is only 1 month away from graduating.
When the highlights were ready, she had me take out the foils while wetting the client's hair and then had me wash and condition the hair. After she did the haircut, while explaining every step of the way, she had me blow-dry the hair.
It was great. Of course it's new and usually everything new seems exciting, but it felt like when I was painting for a living. Using my hands for something other than paperwork, creating a new look and getting a hug in return from a very happy teenager was pretty cool. Plus, her mom gave Jeanie a tip and me a few bucks as well. I insisted that Jeanie take it, but she wouldn't hear of it and thanked me for all my help.
We don't know what's going to be tonight. I really don't want to sit for 4 hours watching instuction videos, but I have to show up to collect the hours. I can't wait to get through all the bookwork and put it all into practice!
On Tuesday night Ms. Pauly had us sit with the senior class for an inservice on haircare for African-American hair. This is so foreign to me, as I never realized the challenge that African-Americans have with their hair and scalp. The school has a large African-American population as well as numerous customers who come to the school's salon for their hair care, so learning these processes is important. However, realistically, though a client can only request the same student up to 3 times, I cannot see an African-American client wanting their hair done by a caucasion. I know that I sure as heck wouldn't if I were in their place. But this remains to be seen.
Wednesday evening was much more interesting, as I was selected to work as an assistant to a senior student named Jeanie. Jeanie is an interesting looking woman, probably around 31-32, who is originally from South America. Her facial structure looks almost masculine, but when up close, it actually looks as though she might have had reconstructive surgery due to an accident. She has this magnificent mane of thick, curly hair.
Right off the bat, Jeanie had me assist her. She taught me how to look up a client in the computer system, find the formula used on their hair on their prior visit (if there was one), and mix the color with the developer while measuring out everything using a digital scale. Luckily we had a teenaged girl, who was thrilled to have 2 people work on her hair.
The project was for natural looking highlights to the hair plus a haircut and new style that required cutting off about 4" of hair. She taught me how to part the hair, how much hair to take for each foil, and actually let me do a few. Again, for someone as precise as a surgeon when I do things, I felt like a spaz.
While the color was depositing (we used color, not bleach), I picked her brain. She was a wealth of information as she is only 1 month away from graduating.
When the highlights were ready, she had me take out the foils while wetting the client's hair and then had me wash and condition the hair. After she did the haircut, while explaining every step of the way, she had me blow-dry the hair.
It was great. Of course it's new and usually everything new seems exciting, but it felt like when I was painting for a living. Using my hands for something other than paperwork, creating a new look and getting a hug in return from a very happy teenager was pretty cool. Plus, her mom gave Jeanie a tip and me a few bucks as well. I insisted that Jeanie take it, but she wouldn't hear of it and thanked me for all my help.
We don't know what's going to be tonight. I really don't want to sit for 4 hours watching instuction videos, but I have to show up to collect the hours. I can't wait to get through all the bookwork and put it all into practice!
Tuesday, January 26, 2010
11. ROLLERS
About 3 months ago I went to a very upscale salon in my area that came highly recommended. As I've mentioned before, I go through hairdressers like I go through nursing jobs, so before I let anyone touch my hair, I make an appointment for a consultation with a stylist. One stylist in particular was recommended as being "phenomenal" with color.
I met with George, a man about 27, very soft spoken, kind of artsy-nerdy, but who seemed very confident in understanding what I was looking for. I brought lots of photos and even photos of how my hair was a few years back and told him that I just wanted my hair back to the way I used to have it, my base color and lots of highlights. He assured me that he knew exactly what I wanted, and I made an appointment with him for the following week.
Long story short, my hair came out nothing as we discussed. I had specifically told him that I did not like chunky highlights, rather to spread them out in thin strips about 1/8" wide. What I got was 1" chunks of very blond hair on top of auburn hair (my base color is a dark brown). I knew when he saw it he knew it was wrong and was quick to say that sometimes a small touch up here and there is needed to get it perfect, so I should come back tomorrow and he would rectify the situation. I neglected to say that throughout this 3 1/2 hour ordeal, small things were mentioned in passing such as "your porosity is off, so I'm just going to add this to your shampoo," and "your ends are a bit dry so I'll add this conditioner to them," never stating that this was being tacked on as an additional service to my bill, which came to a whopping $250.00. Plus he tried selling me product at $26 per bottle. To shorten this pathetic disaster, I ended up going back to him 3 times to fix this mess. Each time I heard that sometimes another touch up is needed, but after 3 strikes you're out and I was done. And pissed.
I tell you this because on the first day of school when we were receiving our orientation from Ms. Pauly, she mentioned that a stylist from a local upscale salon comes in periodically to teach the newest methods in haircutting, and mentioned the name of the salon. Do you know how sometimes you know instantly what's going to happen next? Well last night I walked into the school, and guess who's teaching the haircutting class. You guessed it.
I avoided him like the plague, as I have since found another hairdresser who so far has been doing what I ask (this is another story for another time) and I didn't want to embarass him as well as myself, since my hair is drastically different than the mess he had left it in. Everytime I had to walk by the open classroon that he was teaching in, I raised my mannequin head to the side of my head so it was it's profile that was seen instead of mine. I know, real mature. But sometimes you have to do what you have to do.
Mr. Sanchez obviously has a new girlfriend, as he spent a good portion of the evening with his cell phone hooked to his pants while he continuously checked for texts. Instead of 2 10 minute breaks we were given one 15 minute and one for 30 minutes. One of the girls in the class and I stayed in the classroom to use this time to catch up on some homework, while the others disappeared. I really didn't appreciate his use of our time for his personal use.
We spent most of the evening going over our reading assignment, (while he checked for text messages), and then in the last hour we learned how to apply rollers to the hair.
When I was a kid, the only people I ever saw in rollers were the women in the beauty parlor that my mother dragged me to every Saturday to sit, watch and wait for what seemed a tortuous amount of time, while she and her fellow roller queens sat under the hair dryers and tried to hear each other speak. I never new that there actually was an art form to their application.
It seems that the placement on the scalp is very important. They are not arbitrarily placed, but strategically, according to what kind of curl you want and how much volume (lift) you want the curl to have. I never understood why, in my futile attempts to try and set my mother's hair on my own, the hair would fall off the roller from the sides, only to learn that there is also a method to how wide the hair should be as well as how much hair gets rolled on depending on what kind of result you are trying to achieve. It really was very interesting. Too bad we only got to do 1/2 a head and then it was time to clean up to get ready to go home. All of us were dying to finish and dry our mannequin's hair to see the finished result but time had run out. We were all disappointed.
I cannot believe that this is already the third week of school. We will get a print-out of how many hours we've accumulated so far, so that I can officially start my count down.
I met with George, a man about 27, very soft spoken, kind of artsy-nerdy, but who seemed very confident in understanding what I was looking for. I brought lots of photos and even photos of how my hair was a few years back and told him that I just wanted my hair back to the way I used to have it, my base color and lots of highlights. He assured me that he knew exactly what I wanted, and I made an appointment with him for the following week.
Long story short, my hair came out nothing as we discussed. I had specifically told him that I did not like chunky highlights, rather to spread them out in thin strips about 1/8" wide. What I got was 1" chunks of very blond hair on top of auburn hair (my base color is a dark brown). I knew when he saw it he knew it was wrong and was quick to say that sometimes a small touch up here and there is needed to get it perfect, so I should come back tomorrow and he would rectify the situation. I neglected to say that throughout this 3 1/2 hour ordeal, small things were mentioned in passing such as "your porosity is off, so I'm just going to add this to your shampoo," and "your ends are a bit dry so I'll add this conditioner to them," never stating that this was being tacked on as an additional service to my bill, which came to a whopping $250.00. Plus he tried selling me product at $26 per bottle. To shorten this pathetic disaster, I ended up going back to him 3 times to fix this mess. Each time I heard that sometimes another touch up is needed, but after 3 strikes you're out and I was done. And pissed.
I tell you this because on the first day of school when we were receiving our orientation from Ms. Pauly, she mentioned that a stylist from a local upscale salon comes in periodically to teach the newest methods in haircutting, and mentioned the name of the salon. Do you know how sometimes you know instantly what's going to happen next? Well last night I walked into the school, and guess who's teaching the haircutting class. You guessed it.
I avoided him like the plague, as I have since found another hairdresser who so far has been doing what I ask (this is another story for another time) and I didn't want to embarass him as well as myself, since my hair is drastically different than the mess he had left it in. Everytime I had to walk by the open classroon that he was teaching in, I raised my mannequin head to the side of my head so it was it's profile that was seen instead of mine. I know, real mature. But sometimes you have to do what you have to do.
Mr. Sanchez obviously has a new girlfriend, as he spent a good portion of the evening with his cell phone hooked to his pants while he continuously checked for texts. Instead of 2 10 minute breaks we were given one 15 minute and one for 30 minutes. One of the girls in the class and I stayed in the classroom to use this time to catch up on some homework, while the others disappeared. I really didn't appreciate his use of our time for his personal use.
We spent most of the evening going over our reading assignment, (while he checked for text messages), and then in the last hour we learned how to apply rollers to the hair.
When I was a kid, the only people I ever saw in rollers were the women in the beauty parlor that my mother dragged me to every Saturday to sit, watch and wait for what seemed a tortuous amount of time, while she and her fellow roller queens sat under the hair dryers and tried to hear each other speak. I never new that there actually was an art form to their application.
It seems that the placement on the scalp is very important. They are not arbitrarily placed, but strategically, according to what kind of curl you want and how much volume (lift) you want the curl to have. I never understood why, in my futile attempts to try and set my mother's hair on my own, the hair would fall off the roller from the sides, only to learn that there is also a method to how wide the hair should be as well as how much hair gets rolled on depending on what kind of result you are trying to achieve. It really was very interesting. Too bad we only got to do 1/2 a head and then it was time to clean up to get ready to go home. All of us were dying to finish and dry our mannequin's hair to see the finished result but time had run out. We were all disappointed.
I cannot believe that this is already the third week of school. We will get a print-out of how many hours we've accumulated so far, so that I can officially start my count down.
Saturday, January 23, 2010
10. NEW INSIGHTS
Though this is Saturday, I had to work, as the agency I work for is limited in it's resources for RN's (actually, I'm the only one available except for one other who chips in once in a while).
I had to do a lot of driving and got to thinking about hairstyling.
In our studies, there is a lot written about form, texture, lines, and profiles related to hairstyling. It occurred to me that the reason why I am enjoying this so much is that I was a sculpture major. All the elements we are studying related to hair, is relative to sculpture. When I studied sculpture, I was working with a 3-dimensional form hidden within the block of material that I was sculpting. It's the same with hair. You are presented with a form, and you use your talents to figure out what you can carve from this form to create something beautiful. You take into consideration the person's features, the elements of their face and body and how you think a style would be appropriate to compliment their features.
I realize this is the tip of the iceberg, as I have so much more to learn about this related to hairstyling, but the concept is the same. Before I even made the decision to study cosmetology, I would always comment to my husband when we would watch a show or a movie, how some one's hairstyle or hair color was so wrong for them, and what I thought would look so much better to compliment their features. Never did I think that life would head me in the direction to make a living doing this, though I have quite a ways to go, but my teachers keep assuring me that "it flies!"
I am still so surprised as to how much I look forward to starting another week of school. I can't wait until we start learning about color, and all that's involved with it. We have to study some chemistry, which I always found fascinating in college, and it will be interesting to apply the principles to the processes that we will be using. Especially from the point of having had so many processes done to my hair over the years; to learn the actual science behind it will be something I will really enjoy. I am the type of person who is never satisfied with just a plain explanation; I want to know the whys and hows behind it.
So this was my epiphany for today.
I can't wait!
I had to do a lot of driving and got to thinking about hairstyling.
In our studies, there is a lot written about form, texture, lines, and profiles related to hairstyling. It occurred to me that the reason why I am enjoying this so much is that I was a sculpture major. All the elements we are studying related to hair, is relative to sculpture. When I studied sculpture, I was working with a 3-dimensional form hidden within the block of material that I was sculpting. It's the same with hair. You are presented with a form, and you use your talents to figure out what you can carve from this form to create something beautiful. You take into consideration the person's features, the elements of their face and body and how you think a style would be appropriate to compliment their features.
I realize this is the tip of the iceberg, as I have so much more to learn about this related to hairstyling, but the concept is the same. Before I even made the decision to study cosmetology, I would always comment to my husband when we would watch a show or a movie, how some one's hairstyle or hair color was so wrong for them, and what I thought would look so much better to compliment their features. Never did I think that life would head me in the direction to make a living doing this, though I have quite a ways to go, but my teachers keep assuring me that "it flies!"
I am still so surprised as to how much I look forward to starting another week of school. I can't wait until we start learning about color, and all that's involved with it. We have to study some chemistry, which I always found fascinating in college, and it will be interesting to apply the principles to the processes that we will be using. Especially from the point of having had so many processes done to my hair over the years; to learn the actual science behind it will be something I will really enjoy. I am the type of person who is never satisfied with just a plain explanation; I want to know the whys and hows behind it.
So this was my epiphany for today.
I can't wait!
Friday, January 22, 2010
9. THERE'S ALWAYS ONE IN THE CLASS
Do you remember when you were in school, there was always one kid that always acted like he/she was clueless, and that the world owed them because they always "misunderstood" the laws laid down by the teacher? Well I have one of those in my class, but she is post-high school, which is pretty pathetic.
To begin with, I was surprised that the school was open on Martin Luther King's birthday. The school has a large population of African-American students, so I called the school to confirm that they indeed were holding classes that night. One of my class-mates, Latisha, did not come to class on this holiday, so I naturally assumed it was because of the fact that it was a federal holiday and most places were closed.
Instead, Latisha comes in on Tuesday and asks (exactly like this): "Do we all had school yesterday?" When we all nodded in agreement she exclaimed "We did?"
So yesterday we were all very aware that we were having an exam. And on the first day of class all the rules and regulations were laid down, first and foremost being that if you are going to be absent or even 5 minutes late, you must call the school. One hour into the class, Latisha strolls in. And can't understand why Ms. Diamond will not allow her to now take the exam that we all have finished. Plus she never bothered to call and let Ms. Diamond know that she was running late. Plus she also missed the exam on Monday. Mind you, this is the second time that Latisha is taking this course, having dropped out in August due to her third pregnancy: Latisha is twenty.
Now she is pissed off, mumbling under her breath, and guess who is her best buddy? You guessed it, spit-sucking Stephanie, who for some reason, was sucking spit at an alarming rate last night. Latisha is now undermining everything Ms. Diamond is instructing the class in, and I am looking at this girl (I mean girl-3 kids or not) like she's an idiot.
I must be an idiot for writing about these antics.
I got a 98% on my exam, and yes I turned into one of those nerds ready to slit their wrists because I got one wrong and I had studied this question a good part of the day. But with the workbook completion, I got another 100%. Two others did in the 70's and 80's. Mandy, who lives with her boyfriend and mother and has a 3month old and a 2 year old I think failed, but at least the girl tries and shows up every day on time. This was not an easy exam.
I really like Ms. Diamond (I think I've said this a number of times already). She has this laid back soft spoken way of doing things, and you can tell that she has much more experience as a hairstylist than Mr. Sanchez, who admittedly has done primarily African-American hair, and then only for a very short time before trying his hand at teaching. I was shocked to find out that he is only 33.
We learned the 180 degree haircut from a different perspective, the way Ms. Diamond teaches it, and I found it much easier to do. Then she had us get used to using a flat iron and a curling iron.
Since the flat iron is to me what vibrators are to some women, I am very proficient in using one. Curling irons I am not, as I really hate the look of up-dos and curly-q's in the hair, but I know I need to learn how to use this as well.
I have to see a whole bunch of patients this weekend, and need to get a head start on homework, since we are covering 2 chapters next week and having 2 exams plus a quiz the following week. The difference is is that when I was in nursing school I dreaded Mondays (everyday for that matter). Now, once I'm past my day job, I really look forward to coming to school. I guess that says a lot.
To begin with, I was surprised that the school was open on Martin Luther King's birthday. The school has a large population of African-American students, so I called the school to confirm that they indeed were holding classes that night. One of my class-mates, Latisha, did not come to class on this holiday, so I naturally assumed it was because of the fact that it was a federal holiday and most places were closed.
Instead, Latisha comes in on Tuesday and asks (exactly like this): "Do we all had school yesterday?" When we all nodded in agreement she exclaimed "We did?"
So yesterday we were all very aware that we were having an exam. And on the first day of class all the rules and regulations were laid down, first and foremost being that if you are going to be absent or even 5 minutes late, you must call the school. One hour into the class, Latisha strolls in. And can't understand why Ms. Diamond will not allow her to now take the exam that we all have finished. Plus she never bothered to call and let Ms. Diamond know that she was running late. Plus she also missed the exam on Monday. Mind you, this is the second time that Latisha is taking this course, having dropped out in August due to her third pregnancy: Latisha is twenty.
Now she is pissed off, mumbling under her breath, and guess who is her best buddy? You guessed it, spit-sucking Stephanie, who for some reason, was sucking spit at an alarming rate last night. Latisha is now undermining everything Ms. Diamond is instructing the class in, and I am looking at this girl (I mean girl-3 kids or not) like she's an idiot.
I must be an idiot for writing about these antics.
I got a 98% on my exam, and yes I turned into one of those nerds ready to slit their wrists because I got one wrong and I had studied this question a good part of the day. But with the workbook completion, I got another 100%. Two others did in the 70's and 80's. Mandy, who lives with her boyfriend and mother and has a 3month old and a 2 year old I think failed, but at least the girl tries and shows up every day on time. This was not an easy exam.
I really like Ms. Diamond (I think I've said this a number of times already). She has this laid back soft spoken way of doing things, and you can tell that she has much more experience as a hairstylist than Mr. Sanchez, who admittedly has done primarily African-American hair, and then only for a very short time before trying his hand at teaching. I was shocked to find out that he is only 33.
We learned the 180 degree haircut from a different perspective, the way Ms. Diamond teaches it, and I found it much easier to do. Then she had us get used to using a flat iron and a curling iron.
Since the flat iron is to me what vibrators are to some women, I am very proficient in using one. Curling irons I am not, as I really hate the look of up-dos and curly-q's in the hair, but I know I need to learn how to use this as well.
I have to see a whole bunch of patients this weekend, and need to get a head start on homework, since we are covering 2 chapters next week and having 2 exams plus a quiz the following week. The difference is is that when I was in nursing school I dreaded Mondays (everyday for that matter). Now, once I'm past my day job, I really look forward to coming to school. I guess that says a lot.
Wednesday, January 20, 2010
8. MISS ALISSA'S NEW HAIR-DO
We had a quiz today. I revert back to my high school days when I never studied and then wondered why, when I looked at the material on the test, I didn't recognize anything that was being asked. That's how I now get when I take tests. I study. I study like a mother, cause I think that the "old lady" in the class needs to prove something, and besides, I hate to fail or at least not come out on top (not that I'm competitive or anything like that). But when tests are handed out, this always happens: I look at the questions and internally panic, not recognizing anything that they are asking or even the language it is written in (English).
So the quiz turns out to be quite confusing, as I noticed that it is photo-copied out of a textbook that we do not use, and the definitions do not correlate to any of the definitions in our textbooks.
Mr. Sanchez (again tonight) explains that we will have to know the terminology from both textbooks for the state exam, which doesn't make sense to me since they conflict. He assured us that by the end of the 18 months (SO far away!) it will all compute. I am skeptical.
We worked on Miss Alissa's hair tonight (I PROMISE to provide photos). We learned how to do a long layered cut, commonly known to us hair dressers :) as a 180 degree cut. What is interesting is that I used to have my hair cut in this fashion throughout the 80's (it's sort of a longer-layered version of the Farrah Fawcett hair-do (may she rest in peace), but I never knew what the hairdresser was doing. Mine came out pretty darn good, if I say so myself, and Mr. Sanchez agreed.
Tonight we also reviewed the numerous styles of combs ( I never knew the difference or that there even was such a variety). I'm sure you've seen the comb that has a long tail, formerly referred to as the "rat-tail" comb. Mr. Sanchez was quick to point out that the new politically correct name for this comb is the tail comb. I asked if the rats were getting insulted, and he almost spit out his water. So we have a tail comb, formerly known as the rat tail. I hear Purple Rain playing in my head.
So spit-sucking Stephanie (okay, I'll be nice-which as I've mentioned before is hard for me), Stephanie, was kind enough, being the aficionado of hair shampooing, to show me some shampooing tricks, that were actually pretty cool. Maybe she's trying to suck up (oops, no pun intended), but it was helpful.
Tomorrow we have another large exam. Two in one week-I feel like it's mid-terms except it's only the second week of school. I have to see only one patient tomorrow, a new case down in Boca requiring wound care (my favorite) and then I'm coming home to study.
Wish me luck!
So the quiz turns out to be quite confusing, as I noticed that it is photo-copied out of a textbook that we do not use, and the definitions do not correlate to any of the definitions in our textbooks.
Mr. Sanchez (again tonight) explains that we will have to know the terminology from both textbooks for the state exam, which doesn't make sense to me since they conflict. He assured us that by the end of the 18 months (SO far away!) it will all compute. I am skeptical.
We worked on Miss Alissa's hair tonight (I PROMISE to provide photos). We learned how to do a long layered cut, commonly known to us hair dressers :) as a 180 degree cut. What is interesting is that I used to have my hair cut in this fashion throughout the 80's (it's sort of a longer-layered version of the Farrah Fawcett hair-do (may she rest in peace), but I never knew what the hairdresser was doing. Mine came out pretty darn good, if I say so myself, and Mr. Sanchez agreed.
Tonight we also reviewed the numerous styles of combs ( I never knew the difference or that there even was such a variety). I'm sure you've seen the comb that has a long tail, formerly referred to as the "rat-tail" comb. Mr. Sanchez was quick to point out that the new politically correct name for this comb is the tail comb. I asked if the rats were getting insulted, and he almost spit out his water. So we have a tail comb, formerly known as the rat tail. I hear Purple Rain playing in my head.
So spit-sucking Stephanie (okay, I'll be nice-which as I've mentioned before is hard for me), Stephanie, was kind enough, being the aficionado of hair shampooing, to show me some shampooing tricks, that were actually pretty cool. Maybe she's trying to suck up (oops, no pun intended), but it was helpful.
Tomorrow we have another large exam. Two in one week-I feel like it's mid-terms except it's only the second week of school. I have to see only one patient tomorrow, a new case down in Boca requiring wound care (my favorite) and then I'm coming home to study.
Wish me luck!
Tuesday, January 19, 2010
7. YET ANOTHER EXAM
Oy. We have a quiz already tomorrow on a new chapter in our textbook and an exam on Thursday. I happen to be exhausted today. I used to be a night owl and able to function on less than 4 hours of sleep. I now require 7 hours, and if I get any less I am basically useless. I run out of steam really fast and no matter how many lattes I consume, it's to no avail.
The problem is that the Australian Open started yesterday, and I absolutely love watching these major events (my husband is a tennis pro). Besides, Roger Federer is my little boy toy (I even have a cat named after him) and I follow him like some inane groupie, but since I'm old enough to be his mother (reality sucks), I worry when he plays poorly and actually get anxious like the crazy Jewish mother that I am (pathetic!) Not that I lust after younger men (again I sound defensive). But there's something about this Swiss....never mind-dirty old lady thoughts. So I stayed up until about half past midnight, got up at 5:30 when my cat Ethan did his "Call Of The Wild" impression because he wanted to be fed, blocked him out and fell back to sleep until 6:30. Not having that extra hour knocked me out for the rest of the day.
So tonight Mr. Sanchez had us take out (get this) Magnum, our male mannequin, as well as our mannequins Amanda and Alissa, all who needed to be shampooed, trimmed, and blown dry. I guess Mr. Sanchez forgot what I had said about this Jesus looking mannequin on the first night we took him out of his box. He has brown hair past his shoulders and a beard about the same length. Mr. Sanchez asked if I ever knew a man who wore his hair at this length or in a ponytail, and I again told him that I used to find guys like this hot, and I thought he would bust a gut, as well as the other women (girls) in the class who heard me. They (including Mr. Sanchez!) weren't even born when I was lusting after these hairy hippies (I did after all, go to an art high school and college-basically 90% of the male students looked like Magnum!)
So when we finished trimming the hair, Mr. Sanchez showed us a really neat way to blow dry the hair that keeps it really smooth and silky (I'm not giving away any styling tricks) and I now can't wait to wash my hair tomorrow and try this out on myself.
I will keep this relatively short as I'm falling asleep as I type. I need to get up early to study and then I'm working in the office tomorrow in my DON (director of nursing) position. Lots of paper-pushing to satisfy our government. Medicare is being ripped off left and right, yet they still insist on all this bull#*#* paper work, thinking that proper documentation will keep things legit. They've turned home care into worrying more about the paperwork and the reimbursement than the patient.
The problem is that the Australian Open started yesterday, and I absolutely love watching these major events (my husband is a tennis pro). Besides, Roger Federer is my little boy toy (I even have a cat named after him) and I follow him like some inane groupie, but since I'm old enough to be his mother (reality sucks), I worry when he plays poorly and actually get anxious like the crazy Jewish mother that I am (pathetic!) Not that I lust after younger men (again I sound defensive). But there's something about this Swiss....never mind-dirty old lady thoughts. So I stayed up until about half past midnight, got up at 5:30 when my cat Ethan did his "Call Of The Wild" impression because he wanted to be fed, blocked him out and fell back to sleep until 6:30. Not having that extra hour knocked me out for the rest of the day.
So tonight Mr. Sanchez had us take out (get this) Magnum, our male mannequin, as well as our mannequins Amanda and Alissa, all who needed to be shampooed, trimmed, and blown dry. I guess Mr. Sanchez forgot what I had said about this Jesus looking mannequin on the first night we took him out of his box. He has brown hair past his shoulders and a beard about the same length. Mr. Sanchez asked if I ever knew a man who wore his hair at this length or in a ponytail, and I again told him that I used to find guys like this hot, and I thought he would bust a gut, as well as the other women (girls) in the class who heard me. They (including Mr. Sanchez!) weren't even born when I was lusting after these hairy hippies (I did after all, go to an art high school and college-basically 90% of the male students looked like Magnum!)
So when we finished trimming the hair, Mr. Sanchez showed us a really neat way to blow dry the hair that keeps it really smooth and silky (I'm not giving away any styling tricks) and I now can't wait to wash my hair tomorrow and try this out on myself.
I will keep this relatively short as I'm falling asleep as I type. I need to get up early to study and then I'm working in the office tomorrow in my DON (director of nursing) position. Lots of paper-pushing to satisfy our government. Medicare is being ripped off left and right, yet they still insist on all this bull#*#* paper work, thinking that proper documentation will keep things legit. They've turned home care into worrying more about the paperwork and the reimbursement than the patient.
Monday, January 18, 2010
6. FIRST EXAM
Tonight was our first exam. I didn't expect it to be easy since so far not too much has been, and it wasn't. If I hadn't studied as much as I did and memorized my flashcards, (a trick I learned when I made my children suffer through Sylvan's Learning Center so that they could learn studying techniques since this was not taught in the schools), I wouldn't have done so well. To sound like one of those brats that everyone has had in their class at one time or another-you know the type, if they get less than 100% they're ready to slit their wrists-I was pissed that I missed one question that I actually did study (but didn't pay too much attention to), and one that I never looked at because I focused so much on the biology (and those hard to pronounce Latin words) instead of learning about the different kinds of conditioners and their therapeutic use for different hair conditions. As it is I got 2 questions wrong out of 50, which gave me a 96%, and if you completed the workbook for the chapter that the test was on, it gave you another 10% of your grade, bringing my grade to over 100% (100% is the max though that you can earn).
When I use the word "workbook" I picture a book where you do puzzles and color in the lines and draw arrows from a word bank to a picture. This isn't the case. The workbook makes you work your ass off. It breaks down the chapter into little bitty pieces that requires you to read the chapter in minute detail and fill in the different sections in detail as well. A chapter in the workbook can take a good hour or two.
We had Mr. Sanchez today. To grade the exams, he handed our tests out so that we were to mark each other's tests. Fate being what it is, guess who got mine. Spit sucking Stephanie. Who was unusually quiet today, I must say. My trust in her is nil, so when Mr. Sanchez came around later in the evening to give us our final grade, I double-checked that I only got penalized for the 2 questions that I knew I got wrong.
Today we worked on our mannequin named Amanda (did I forget to mention that they all have names?). Amanda has brown hair, and get this, it's flecked with grey. She must have little mannequin children who brought on this premature loss of pigment, or a bastard of a mannequin husband. Or maybe she's dating my ex...
Anyway, we did a long-layered cut. For someone who is so dexterous, I felt like a spaz. When I finally got the gist of the technique, it went pretty smoothly. Until Mr. Sanchez used this analogy: "Just think of hair cutting as 3-dimensional geometry since you are using points, angles, and degrees." Now my mind has gone numb and my body is starting to shudder as we now have entered the "Twilight Zone" of math. Math to me is like asking me to speak Chinese. When I was in college, I passed my math course by wearing really short skirts and seductively asking my extremely nerdy professor questions about the questions on the exam, and in his nervousness he would give me the answer. I passed with an A. If you asked me a question about the math the day after the exam, I wouldn't have had a clue. It is one of those topics that I just blank on. But what doesn't make any sense is that I loved the math I did in chemistry, and love the math that I do when I need to design something that requires precise measurements that incorporate allowances in the patterns. I can spend hours working on these calculations.
Sometimes I can't even figure myself out. It's a miracle that my husband can. He thinks my quirkiness is a riot-he says that it keeps him young (like he's some ancient old fart).
So the four hours of classtime flew, and tomorrow we are trimming all four of our female mannequin's hair before we learn another cut. I'll update you on all their names. Eventually I'll take photos so that you will be able to identify who (what) I'm referring to.
Ms. Pauly told us on our first night that we should talk to our mannequins as if they were clients. When I start to do that you have my permission to shoot me.
When I use the word "workbook" I picture a book where you do puzzles and color in the lines and draw arrows from a word bank to a picture. This isn't the case. The workbook makes you work your ass off. It breaks down the chapter into little bitty pieces that requires you to read the chapter in minute detail and fill in the different sections in detail as well. A chapter in the workbook can take a good hour or two.
We had Mr. Sanchez today. To grade the exams, he handed our tests out so that we were to mark each other's tests. Fate being what it is, guess who got mine. Spit sucking Stephanie. Who was unusually quiet today, I must say. My trust in her is nil, so when Mr. Sanchez came around later in the evening to give us our final grade, I double-checked that I only got penalized for the 2 questions that I knew I got wrong.
Today we worked on our mannequin named Amanda (did I forget to mention that they all have names?). Amanda has brown hair, and get this, it's flecked with grey. She must have little mannequin children who brought on this premature loss of pigment, or a bastard of a mannequin husband. Or maybe she's dating my ex...
Anyway, we did a long-layered cut. For someone who is so dexterous, I felt like a spaz. When I finally got the gist of the technique, it went pretty smoothly. Until Mr. Sanchez used this analogy: "Just think of hair cutting as 3-dimensional geometry since you are using points, angles, and degrees." Now my mind has gone numb and my body is starting to shudder as we now have entered the "Twilight Zone" of math. Math to me is like asking me to speak Chinese. When I was in college, I passed my math course by wearing really short skirts and seductively asking my extremely nerdy professor questions about the questions on the exam, and in his nervousness he would give me the answer. I passed with an A. If you asked me a question about the math the day after the exam, I wouldn't have had a clue. It is one of those topics that I just blank on. But what doesn't make any sense is that I loved the math I did in chemistry, and love the math that I do when I need to design something that requires precise measurements that incorporate allowances in the patterns. I can spend hours working on these calculations.
Sometimes I can't even figure myself out. It's a miracle that my husband can. He thinks my quirkiness is a riot-he says that it keeps him young (like he's some ancient old fart).
So the four hours of classtime flew, and tomorrow we are trimming all four of our female mannequin's hair before we learn another cut. I'll update you on all their names. Eventually I'll take photos so that you will be able to identify who (what) I'm referring to.
Ms. Pauly told us on our first night that we should talk to our mannequins as if they were clients. When I start to do that you have my permission to shoot me.
Friday, January 15, 2010
5. WASHING HAIR
I was thinking that I should document a really good example of what my day is like while working as a nurse.
Part of my job, aside from supervisory functions in the office, is to do home visits. The company I work for is applying for their Medicare license, and part of the deal is to have a certain amount of active patients (not "active" as in moving, but "active" as in under our care). Since they are not allowed to bill for these services yet, the hospital has been giving us patients who are either indigent or do not have any health insurance.
My most recent patient was a 33 year old female, who, like a responsible un-wed mother that she is, went ATV-ing in her backyard, hit a bump, and fell into the canal in back of her house. On her way up to the surface for air, she ripped open her left inner thigh. She was treated at the hospital, then sent home with antibiotics and wound care orders. After not following any of the treatments given, the wound became infected, she returned to the hospital, had the flesh on most of her inner left thigh removed, and lucky me received the order for wound care with a wound vac. I have to tell you that wound vacs are extremely expensive, and that this service was being provided for gratis by the company that manufactures the machine, as well as the agency paying for me to care for this wound and not being re-reimbursed.
First this lovely woman did not bother to give her correct address or phone number, to avoid receiving any bills for her hospitalization. So I spent the afternoon driving 35 miles to her imaginary address only to be met at the door by an irate young mother who was "sick and tired of getting bills and mail addressed to this person." I apologized, called the agency to let them know, and went home. About 2 minutes after walking in the door, I received a call from the agency to notify me that this patient called demanding where her nurse was.
The following day I went to change the wound vac dressing on this patient. I made the appointment for 10:00 AM and was met by her domestic partner's grandmother who told me that the patient was still asleep. I was actually supposed to be off this day, having a personal appointment a distance away (this was a Saturday), so the grandmother was kind enough to wake her highness up.
This was supposed to be an indigent patient. Her acrylic nails and sprayed on tan must have been donated with the wound vac.
I heard every kind of epithet spew from this woman's mouth, blaming everyone for what had happened to her leg. Not once was there any personal responsibility owned.
After the dressing was done, I told her that I would be back Tuesday morning at 9:00 AM sharp, as I had to work in the office as well that day.
I showed up at the house at 9:00 AM sharp (I'm a stickler for punctuality). This was during the cold spell that we encountered down here. It was 40 degrees. To Floridians, it might as well have been below zero. I know it's not biologically feasible, but our blood does thin and we do not do well with the cold. So there I am, banging on the door (no doorbell), and no one is answering. I'm calling the house from my cell and getting the machine. I called the grandmother, who was away from home and she told me to go around the back and bang on the sliding glass doors to this woman's bedroom. I banged so hard I'm surprised the glass didn't shatter. No answer. I left.
I came to the office and read her chart, which now contained more information that the office did not share with me initially. She is a drug addict. She pops Dilaudid like Pez. She refused to have her wound vac changed in the hospital. She chased people, including physicians, out of her room if they did not do what she wanted. I told the agency that they were setting themselves up for a lawsuit. One of the owners, who is clueless about the nature of people, could only see that we have another "active" patient, and disagreed with my assessment. I spent the day leaving messages to no avail. I called the physician to notify her that we were unable to change the wound vac since the patient did not call us back.
The next day was a repeat performance. No call back. I called the physician to let her know that the patient is non-compliant and we are discharging her to her care.
Lo and behold, about 3 hours later I get a call from my new BFF. "Hey, where are you?" she asks. "I called you back 3 times yesterday and you never got back to me," she has the balls to say. I told her that she had been discharged and to seek further medical care with her physician. To say she went ballistic is an understatement, but by that time I had hung up. A bit later in the day the 2 owners of the company came la-li-dalling into the office and non-chalantly told me that they had spoken to the discharge planner who gave us this lovely patient, who informed them that the patient is suing the hospital for negligence. Duh.
So tonight we had Ms. Diamond again. I really like this woman. We went over the material for Monday's exam (exam!) and then we did another zero degree haircut on the same mannequin that my cat had attacked. Since I was done about 40 minutes before everyone else, I had some time to start my weekend homework and studying. When the others caught up, we got to wash each others' hair. We are learning about scalp massage, and I thought this would be pretty cool.
I washed one of my fellow student's hair, massaged her scalp well, and then she got to reciprocate. I think she has never washed anyone besides herself. The massage I so anticipated was performed with barely touching fingertips on what felt like a scalp with very little shampoo, a quick rinse, and, when I blow dried my hair, shampoo residue.
When I came home, I realized that going back to school has cut down on my consumption of alcohol. Not that I'm a lush or need to drink daily (do I sound defensive?) but I do like a glass of wine or 2 when I come home from work. Since I cannot go to school smelling of alcohol or risk cutting hair in an intoxicated state, and by the time I come home I'm either ready for bed or need to study, I do not drink from Monday-Thursday when I have classes. I should also tell you that school is year round, with only very few days off for major holidays such as Christmas, New Years , Memorial Day, Labor Day and Thanksgiving. And if you are absent (which I will be for 3 days next month) you will be screwed, judging by how much work is given at one time. And I thought this was going to be a breeze!
Part of my job, aside from supervisory functions in the office, is to do home visits. The company I work for is applying for their Medicare license, and part of the deal is to have a certain amount of active patients (not "active" as in moving, but "active" as in under our care). Since they are not allowed to bill for these services yet, the hospital has been giving us patients who are either indigent or do not have any health insurance.
My most recent patient was a 33 year old female, who, like a responsible un-wed mother that she is, went ATV-ing in her backyard, hit a bump, and fell into the canal in back of her house. On her way up to the surface for air, she ripped open her left inner thigh. She was treated at the hospital, then sent home with antibiotics and wound care orders. After not following any of the treatments given, the wound became infected, she returned to the hospital, had the flesh on most of her inner left thigh removed, and lucky me received the order for wound care with a wound vac. I have to tell you that wound vacs are extremely expensive, and that this service was being provided for gratis by the company that manufactures the machine, as well as the agency paying for me to care for this wound and not being re-reimbursed.
First this lovely woman did not bother to give her correct address or phone number, to avoid receiving any bills for her hospitalization. So I spent the afternoon driving 35 miles to her imaginary address only to be met at the door by an irate young mother who was "sick and tired of getting bills and mail addressed to this person." I apologized, called the agency to let them know, and went home. About 2 minutes after walking in the door, I received a call from the agency to notify me that this patient called demanding where her nurse was.
The following day I went to change the wound vac dressing on this patient. I made the appointment for 10:00 AM and was met by her domestic partner's grandmother who told me that the patient was still asleep. I was actually supposed to be off this day, having a personal appointment a distance away (this was a Saturday), so the grandmother was kind enough to wake her highness up.
This was supposed to be an indigent patient. Her acrylic nails and sprayed on tan must have been donated with the wound vac.
I heard every kind of epithet spew from this woman's mouth, blaming everyone for what had happened to her leg. Not once was there any personal responsibility owned.
After the dressing was done, I told her that I would be back Tuesday morning at 9:00 AM sharp, as I had to work in the office as well that day.
I showed up at the house at 9:00 AM sharp (I'm a stickler for punctuality). This was during the cold spell that we encountered down here. It was 40 degrees. To Floridians, it might as well have been below zero. I know it's not biologically feasible, but our blood does thin and we do not do well with the cold. So there I am, banging on the door (no doorbell), and no one is answering. I'm calling the house from my cell and getting the machine. I called the grandmother, who was away from home and she told me to go around the back and bang on the sliding glass doors to this woman's bedroom. I banged so hard I'm surprised the glass didn't shatter. No answer. I left.
I came to the office and read her chart, which now contained more information that the office did not share with me initially. She is a drug addict. She pops Dilaudid like Pez. She refused to have her wound vac changed in the hospital. She chased people, including physicians, out of her room if they did not do what she wanted. I told the agency that they were setting themselves up for a lawsuit. One of the owners, who is clueless about the nature of people, could only see that we have another "active" patient, and disagreed with my assessment. I spent the day leaving messages to no avail. I called the physician to notify her that we were unable to change the wound vac since the patient did not call us back.
The next day was a repeat performance. No call back. I called the physician to let her know that the patient is non-compliant and we are discharging her to her care.
Lo and behold, about 3 hours later I get a call from my new BFF. "Hey, where are you?" she asks. "I called you back 3 times yesterday and you never got back to me," she has the balls to say. I told her that she had been discharged and to seek further medical care with her physician. To say she went ballistic is an understatement, but by that time I had hung up. A bit later in the day the 2 owners of the company came la-li-dalling into the office and non-chalantly told me that they had spoken to the discharge planner who gave us this lovely patient, who informed them that the patient is suing the hospital for negligence. Duh.
So tonight we had Ms. Diamond again. I really like this woman. We went over the material for Monday's exam (exam!) and then we did another zero degree haircut on the same mannequin that my cat had attacked. Since I was done about 40 minutes before everyone else, I had some time to start my weekend homework and studying. When the others caught up, we got to wash each others' hair. We are learning about scalp massage, and I thought this would be pretty cool.
I washed one of my fellow student's hair, massaged her scalp well, and then she got to reciprocate. I think she has never washed anyone besides herself. The massage I so anticipated was performed with barely touching fingertips on what felt like a scalp with very little shampoo, a quick rinse, and, when I blow dried my hair, shampoo residue.
When I came home, I realized that going back to school has cut down on my consumption of alcohol. Not that I'm a lush or need to drink daily (do I sound defensive?) but I do like a glass of wine or 2 when I come home from work. Since I cannot go to school smelling of alcohol or risk cutting hair in an intoxicated state, and by the time I come home I'm either ready for bed or need to study, I do not drink from Monday-Thursday when I have classes. I should also tell you that school is year round, with only very few days off for major holidays such as Christmas, New Years , Memorial Day, Labor Day and Thanksgiving. And if you are absent (which I will be for 3 days next month) you will be screwed, judging by how much work is given at one time. And I thought this was going to be a breeze!
Thursday, January 14, 2010
4. THE ANTI-SEMITE IN THE CLASS REVEALED
When I came home last night I took the mannequin head out of my carrying case and left it out overnight so that the hair could dry and not end up smelling like a wet dog (these mannequins have real human hair-more on this later ). I put it in back of my couch on my ironing board, which usually takes me a week to put back in it's place. Every time I went out of the room and came back in I screamed when I saw the head. I kept forgetting it was there and then spazzing out when I saw it. You would have thought that after awhile I would "get it" and remember that it was there, but no such luck. I kept spazzing. Then I found my cat Ethan attacking the head, his full body on top of the head, biting away like he was biting on a large hairy animal, and knew it was time to put it back in the case.
Today we met Mr. Sanchez. I wondered why this guy got to use his last name to be addressed and started to expound (to myself) on how unfair it was that the female instructors had to use THEIR first names, only to find out that Sanchez IS his first name!
Mr. Sanchez is this tall, very built, over 6'2" African-American man. I watch people, and would see him on my breaks looking very serious and not speaking much at all. That big, silent, brooding type. Mr. Sanchez turned out to be a riot. Once inside the classroom, quiet spoken though he is, he is funny. And he makes you stay on the ball. He is one of those teachers that calls out your name to answer a question from your previous night's homework (yes, it was still an average of 25 pages plus workbook) so you had no choice but to sit up and take notice.
The one thing that amazes me (here goes my snotty New Yorker thing again) is that no one can pronounce the latin/biological terminology! Not even the teachers! I realize you don't say to a client, "Well Ms. Smith, you have a serious case of fragilitis crinium" (split ends), but you would think that the teachers at least would have practiced pronouncing these words! It made me a bit crazy (er).
We received our male mannequin heads today (the one that was missing from our initial kit). When we took it out of its box, 5 students exclaimed that it looked like Jesus. One student exclaimed that it looked like someone she dated in high school. The only one that got it was the teacher.
There is this girl, and yes I mean girl, since she's about 18, in the class named Stephanie, that has this habit of speaking as though her words build up in her mouth and they explode outwards when she speaks, followed by a sucking in, through her mouth, of her saliva. And she's loud. And she's an 18 year old know it all (aren't all 18 year olds?). She washes hair for a living in a salon.
Well Mr. Sanchez is now, at the end of class, talking shop, telling us about how people tip, not to prejudge that you're going to receive a wopper of a gratuity cause you'll always end up disappointed, etc. Spit sucking Stephanie then blurts out how the Jewish ladies whose hair she washes are so cheap, and before she can finish her anti-semetic thrashing, I spurt out that I resent what she just said. I was in the company of others. I did it tactfully. Which is not usually how I handle things that really piss me off.
So now Stephanie looks like a deer caught in the headlights, Mr. Sanchez is looking at her like she's an idiot, and the 2 African-American students in the class look down at the floor, probably thinking that if this bitch thinks this way about Jews, they can only imagine what she thinks about them.
So Stephanie says she didn't mean to be insulting, and I tell her she was and she shuts up, sucking in her spit yet again.
Today we met Mr. Sanchez. I wondered why this guy got to use his last name to be addressed and started to expound (to myself) on how unfair it was that the female instructors had to use THEIR first names, only to find out that Sanchez IS his first name!
Mr. Sanchez is this tall, very built, over 6'2" African-American man. I watch people, and would see him on my breaks looking very serious and not speaking much at all. That big, silent, brooding type. Mr. Sanchez turned out to be a riot. Once inside the classroom, quiet spoken though he is, he is funny. And he makes you stay on the ball. He is one of those teachers that calls out your name to answer a question from your previous night's homework (yes, it was still an average of 25 pages plus workbook) so you had no choice but to sit up and take notice.
The one thing that amazes me (here goes my snotty New Yorker thing again) is that no one can pronounce the latin/biological terminology! Not even the teachers! I realize you don't say to a client, "Well Ms. Smith, you have a serious case of fragilitis crinium" (split ends), but you would think that the teachers at least would have practiced pronouncing these words! It made me a bit crazy (er).
We received our male mannequin heads today (the one that was missing from our initial kit). When we took it out of its box, 5 students exclaimed that it looked like Jesus. One student exclaimed that it looked like someone she dated in high school. The only one that got it was the teacher.
There is this girl, and yes I mean girl, since she's about 18, in the class named Stephanie, that has this habit of speaking as though her words build up in her mouth and they explode outwards when she speaks, followed by a sucking in, through her mouth, of her saliva. And she's loud. And she's an 18 year old know it all (aren't all 18 year olds?). She washes hair for a living in a salon.
Well Mr. Sanchez is now, at the end of class, talking shop, telling us about how people tip, not to prejudge that you're going to receive a wopper of a gratuity cause you'll always end up disappointed, etc. Spit sucking Stephanie then blurts out how the Jewish ladies whose hair she washes are so cheap, and before she can finish her anti-semetic thrashing, I spurt out that I resent what she just said. I was in the company of others. I did it tactfully. Which is not usually how I handle things that really piss me off.
So now Stephanie looks like a deer caught in the headlights, Mr. Sanchez is looking at her like she's an idiot, and the 2 African-American students in the class look down at the floor, probably thinking that if this bitch thinks this way about Jews, they can only imagine what she thinks about them.
So Stephanie says she didn't mean to be insulting, and I tell her she was and she shuts up, sucking in her spit yet again.
3. DAY 2 (ONLY 1196 HOURS TO GO!)
Tuesday, January 12, 2010
Day 2 (I'll eventually stop counting the days)
Ms. Diamond was our teacher today. She is a huge (I mean huge!) woman with severe arthritis in her feet, so that she wobbles when she walks. I am such a New York snot, with my preconceived notions. She turned out to be a doll.
We went over the chapter that we had for homework. I was furiously taking notes as my classmates used different colored highlighters to highlight the important stuff in their textbooks. Heads rested down on their desks on their left arms (we're all righties) as they dragged their colorful (purple seems to be the color of choice) highlighters across the pages.
After this we surprisingly were ready to do a zero degree cut. These degrees do not make any sense to me yet. We used a mannequin with very long hair, wet her hair, and then gave her (it?)a trim of 1" without lifting any of the hair away from the head. We learned how to hold our shears properly, how to palm them when combing the client's hair with the comb in the same hand as the shears. When done Ms. Diamond checked out our mannequins to see if the hair was even, and how well we did. I got the thumbs up, and since I finished about a half hour before my classmates, I got to have a bit of a break, longer than our usual two 10 minutes.
I was really excited! It felt very natural to me; even holding the shears the correct way, which was weird at first, began to feel very comfortable. I was psyched!
Day 2 (I'll eventually stop counting the days)
Ms. Diamond was our teacher today. She is a huge (I mean huge!) woman with severe arthritis in her feet, so that she wobbles when she walks. I am such a New York snot, with my preconceived notions. She turned out to be a doll.
We went over the chapter that we had for homework. I was furiously taking notes as my classmates used different colored highlighters to highlight the important stuff in their textbooks. Heads rested down on their desks on their left arms (we're all righties) as they dragged their colorful (purple seems to be the color of choice) highlighters across the pages.
After this we surprisingly were ready to do a zero degree cut. These degrees do not make any sense to me yet. We used a mannequin with very long hair, wet her hair, and then gave her (it?)a trim of 1" without lifting any of the hair away from the head. We learned how to hold our shears properly, how to palm them when combing the client's hair with the comb in the same hand as the shears. When done Ms. Diamond checked out our mannequins to see if the hair was even, and how well we did. I got the thumbs up, and since I finished about a half hour before my classmates, I got to have a bit of a break, longer than our usual two 10 minutes.
I was really excited! It felt very natural to me; even holding the shears the correct way, which was weird at first, began to feel very comfortable. I was psyched!
2. MY FIRST DAY OF SCHOOL
Monday, January 11, 2010 (yes I know it's Thursday, January 14th, but I just had time today to start this blog).
I knew I'd be the oldest person in the cosmetology department, so I was prepared. I was surprised by the number of people around my age in the massage department, but this never really interested me. I always picture some fat hairy guy getting a hard on from being massaged in what is supposed to be therapeutic. It kind of grosses me out.
The classes are from 5:45 PM-9:45 PM. After a day of work, it's a bit tiring, but I was excited to start. There are 6 of us in the class, all women, all from different backgrounds. It was interesting to see how women in their 20's, predominantly uneducated beyond high school, walked into the classroom with their heads down, afraid to even say hello.
The teacher for today was the director of the cosmetology department-Ms. Pauly. All the teachers use their first names, but attach either Ms. or Mr. to their name. I kept thinking of Gone With The Wind.
We were told the rules and regulations, policies of the school, etc. etc. The program for the night school is 1200 hours or 18 months. You can possibly do it in 16 months if you come one day a week during the day plus the evening. I intend to do this.
Well after the usual rules and regs, we were each handed a huge box which contained our tools.
This is a girl's dream of dying and going to heaven if you are really into hair. I am insane about my hair. I have gone through hairdressers the way I have gone through nursing jobs. I have tried probably every hair product manufactured, own a multitude of appliances, yet I was still over joyed when I opened this box. Every hair utensil known to man was in there: blow dryers, curling irons, flat irons, razors, shears, scissors, clips, shavers, a rolling carrying case, every sized brush and comb imaginable, etc, etc, plus 4 mannequin heads (we were missing our 5th-a man's head). Almost as good as dying and going to shoe heaven.
Then we were given homework. 25 pages the first night plus the correlating workbook to be completed by tomorrow's class. If class ends at 9:45 PM and I get home at 10:00 PM, then get up at 6:30 AM and leave to work at 8:15 just when do I do all this? It's called staying up late and then getting up VERY early to finish.
The homework was on Trichology, the study of hair. We had to memorize all the latin names for all sorts of scalp conditions and infestations, plus how hair is formed down to the cells and their biological names as well as how it gets it's color (more latin). All I could think of is the hair dresser that does my husband's hair-let me put it this way-a rocket scientist she's not. To put it nicely, (which is hard for me) not the brightest crayon in the box. And she finished cosmetology school? And passed the state boards? OMG! A new respect for hairdressers was born.
I knew I'd be the oldest person in the cosmetology department, so I was prepared. I was surprised by the number of people around my age in the massage department, but this never really interested me. I always picture some fat hairy guy getting a hard on from being massaged in what is supposed to be therapeutic. It kind of grosses me out.
The classes are from 5:45 PM-9:45 PM. After a day of work, it's a bit tiring, but I was excited to start. There are 6 of us in the class, all women, all from different backgrounds. It was interesting to see how women in their 20's, predominantly uneducated beyond high school, walked into the classroom with their heads down, afraid to even say hello.
The teacher for today was the director of the cosmetology department-Ms. Pauly. All the teachers use their first names, but attach either Ms. or Mr. to their name. I kept thinking of Gone With The Wind.
We were told the rules and regulations, policies of the school, etc. etc. The program for the night school is 1200 hours or 18 months. You can possibly do it in 16 months if you come one day a week during the day plus the evening. I intend to do this.
Well after the usual rules and regs, we were each handed a huge box which contained our tools.
This is a girl's dream of dying and going to heaven if you are really into hair. I am insane about my hair. I have gone through hairdressers the way I have gone through nursing jobs. I have tried probably every hair product manufactured, own a multitude of appliances, yet I was still over joyed when I opened this box. Every hair utensil known to man was in there: blow dryers, curling irons, flat irons, razors, shears, scissors, clips, shavers, a rolling carrying case, every sized brush and comb imaginable, etc, etc, plus 4 mannequin heads (we were missing our 5th-a man's head). Almost as good as dying and going to shoe heaven.
Then we were given homework. 25 pages the first night plus the correlating workbook to be completed by tomorrow's class. If class ends at 9:45 PM and I get home at 10:00 PM, then get up at 6:30 AM and leave to work at 8:15 just when do I do all this? It's called staying up late and then getting up VERY early to finish.
The homework was on Trichology, the study of hair. We had to memorize all the latin names for all sorts of scalp conditions and infestations, plus how hair is formed down to the cells and their biological names as well as how it gets it's color (more latin). All I could think of is the hair dresser that does my husband's hair-let me put it this way-a rocket scientist she's not. To put it nicely, (which is hard for me) not the brightest crayon in the box. And she finished cosmetology school? And passed the state boards? OMG! A new respect for hairdressers was born.
1. WHY COSMETOLOGY?
On January 11, 2010, I embarked on my new career. You might think it strange that at the age of 53 I decided to return to school (night school) to start a totally new profession. It wasn't due to the economy, or not making enough money, or any of the reasons that seem so common these days. It came from a place deep in my soul that I needed to find a career where I could use my artistic abilities, make a living, perhaps have my own business, and have some sense of satisfaction at the end of the day.
Let me say that I never envisioned being a cosmetologist. I guess this is the catch-all phrase used now instead of hairdresser. I will use hairdresser. I never pictured myself as one. To sound perfectly snotty, I always kind of looked down on hairdressers as not being too smart and how hard could it be to cut hair? And my mother, the epitome of snottihood (is this a word?), would have killed me if I even considered it as a career. She would have died of embarrassment in front of her friends having a daughter who was a hairdresser! But I digress.
I started out studying art. I am a die-hard New Yorker living in South Florida. And yes, I do like it here after 15 years. I got tired of having pneumonia every winter. I went to the High School of Art and Design in mid Manhattan and majored in sculpture. I then, at the age of 16, got into Parson's School of Design. Being totally ignorant, naiive, stupid, what have you, and having absolutely no support from my parents, I took getting into Parson's for granted.
My father was a self-taught artist who started painting, I think to find something else to occupy his free time to get away from my never-happy always nagging mother. He painted mainly scenes from his childhood home town as he remembered it before the nazi's (yes I know it should be capitalized but I won't justify the assholes) destroyed all he remembered and had. His style was almost primitive, but full of the emotion that he was unable to express or show. So when I followed in his footsteps, my mother did all she could to dicourage me from becoming like him, and stupid naiive me, wanting her to at least like me, let her convince me that nursing would be the profession for me, just as it had been for her and her mother after the war.
I hated nursing. I hated it in school. I hated it when I graduated with a Bachelor's in Science and an RN. I have always hated it. Everyday was an effort to go to work and calling in sick a lot became a way of life for me.
I won't bore you any further with the details of my early life. Suffice it to say that I basically was stuck. I got married very young to get away from my crazy mother and maternal grandmother to a man that continued the craziness in my life (hey, what did I know? It felt familiar and so I thought it "normal"). So going back to school to study art was out of the question since I had to earn a living.
Fast forward a number of years, and the trend of faux painting was just beginning. I jumped on the bandwagon. I worked as a nurse in the home care aspect of nursing during the week, and painted my heart out on weekends, all while maintaining a home, 2 kids and an unsupportive, miserable husband. I developed a thriving business for almost 10 years. I was in heaven. I loved going to work, loved the independence, loved the satisfaction of creating something that made myself and the customer so happy.
Then every Tom, Dick and Harry jumped on the bandwagon as well and everyone you met was a faux painter. It became difficult finding work unless you worked through a decorator. Most of them were so flaky and nutty that I knew it wouldn't work for me, so I returned to my old profession because I needed to support myself, having gotten divorced after 23 years of marriage.
I worked numerous jobs. My resume is so long that I shorten it to 2 pages to what could easily be 6 if I was honest enough to put down every where that I have worked. I kept thinking that if I found the right environment, I'd be happy in nursing. The money was okay, I was pretty independent, and maybe I could make this work. I tried teaching, working in a cancer center, working in the ER, working in an infusion office, working for almost every home care company in the county, working for a plastic surgeon ( if I had stayed I could have had any surgery I wanted for free-I was the only woman in the office with natural breasts). The list is endless. I finally realized it wasn't the environment. It was the lack of doing something artistic on a daily basis.
So I started my own company making pretty cool handbags that are cruelty free and designed for not putting any pressure on your back or neck (http://www.thecitybag.com/). I thought I could make this into a full time job, so I started doing art fairs, set up a website, sold quite a bit, but not to the point that I could support myself on what I made. The art fairs were my bread and butter, and I even tried (with my husband of 3 years after being single for 7, who is absolutely supportive) doing shows up north, but the amount of work schlepping everything and driving was just ridiculous, plus we have a house full of cats (8) and 2 dogs, and leaving them and getting someone trustworthy to watch them became an effort. I still make the bags, love making them and hearing people rave about them and re-order them, do the local art fairs, but I still needed a full time job.
My husband and I love the show Tabatha's Salon Takeover. We've been faithful fans this season, and a light bulb went off in my head. I googled schools in the area that offered courses to become a hairdresser, and low and behold, there was one 5.2 miles from my home. I discussed my going back to school with my husband, who would have to fend for himself 4 nights/week plus the time apart, but he was as enthusiastic as I was. I then called the school on a Tuesday, went in to talk to them on a Wednesday, signed up on Thursday, and started school on Monday, January 11, 2010. So began my new journey.
Let me say that I never envisioned being a cosmetologist. I guess this is the catch-all phrase used now instead of hairdresser. I will use hairdresser. I never pictured myself as one. To sound perfectly snotty, I always kind of looked down on hairdressers as not being too smart and how hard could it be to cut hair? And my mother, the epitome of snottihood (is this a word?), would have killed me if I even considered it as a career. She would have died of embarrassment in front of her friends having a daughter who was a hairdresser! But I digress.
I started out studying art. I am a die-hard New Yorker living in South Florida. And yes, I do like it here after 15 years. I got tired of having pneumonia every winter. I went to the High School of Art and Design in mid Manhattan and majored in sculpture. I then, at the age of 16, got into Parson's School of Design. Being totally ignorant, naiive, stupid, what have you, and having absolutely no support from my parents, I took getting into Parson's for granted.
My father was a self-taught artist who started painting, I think to find something else to occupy his free time to get away from my never-happy always nagging mother. He painted mainly scenes from his childhood home town as he remembered it before the nazi's (yes I know it should be capitalized but I won't justify the assholes) destroyed all he remembered and had. His style was almost primitive, but full of the emotion that he was unable to express or show. So when I followed in his footsteps, my mother did all she could to dicourage me from becoming like him, and stupid naiive me, wanting her to at least like me, let her convince me that nursing would be the profession for me, just as it had been for her and her mother after the war.
I hated nursing. I hated it in school. I hated it when I graduated with a Bachelor's in Science and an RN. I have always hated it. Everyday was an effort to go to work and calling in sick a lot became a way of life for me.
I won't bore you any further with the details of my early life. Suffice it to say that I basically was stuck. I got married very young to get away from my crazy mother and maternal grandmother to a man that continued the craziness in my life (hey, what did I know? It felt familiar and so I thought it "normal"). So going back to school to study art was out of the question since I had to earn a living.
Fast forward a number of years, and the trend of faux painting was just beginning. I jumped on the bandwagon. I worked as a nurse in the home care aspect of nursing during the week, and painted my heart out on weekends, all while maintaining a home, 2 kids and an unsupportive, miserable husband. I developed a thriving business for almost 10 years. I was in heaven. I loved going to work, loved the independence, loved the satisfaction of creating something that made myself and the customer so happy.
Then every Tom, Dick and Harry jumped on the bandwagon as well and everyone you met was a faux painter. It became difficult finding work unless you worked through a decorator. Most of them were so flaky and nutty that I knew it wouldn't work for me, so I returned to my old profession because I needed to support myself, having gotten divorced after 23 years of marriage.
I worked numerous jobs. My resume is so long that I shorten it to 2 pages to what could easily be 6 if I was honest enough to put down every where that I have worked. I kept thinking that if I found the right environment, I'd be happy in nursing. The money was okay, I was pretty independent, and maybe I could make this work. I tried teaching, working in a cancer center, working in the ER, working in an infusion office, working for almost every home care company in the county, working for a plastic surgeon ( if I had stayed I could have had any surgery I wanted for free-I was the only woman in the office with natural breasts). The list is endless. I finally realized it wasn't the environment. It was the lack of doing something artistic on a daily basis.
So I started my own company making pretty cool handbags that are cruelty free and designed for not putting any pressure on your back or neck (http://www.thecitybag.com/). I thought I could make this into a full time job, so I started doing art fairs, set up a website, sold quite a bit, but not to the point that I could support myself on what I made. The art fairs were my bread and butter, and I even tried (with my husband of 3 years after being single for 7, who is absolutely supportive) doing shows up north, but the amount of work schlepping everything and driving was just ridiculous, plus we have a house full of cats (8) and 2 dogs, and leaving them and getting someone trustworthy to watch them became an effort. I still make the bags, love making them and hearing people rave about them and re-order them, do the local art fairs, but I still needed a full time job.
My husband and I love the show Tabatha's Salon Takeover. We've been faithful fans this season, and a light bulb went off in my head. I googled schools in the area that offered courses to become a hairdresser, and low and behold, there was one 5.2 miles from my home. I discussed my going back to school with my husband, who would have to fend for himself 4 nights/week plus the time apart, but he was as enthusiastic as I was. I then called the school on a Tuesday, went in to talk to them on a Wednesday, signed up on Thursday, and started school on Monday, January 11, 2010. So began my new journey.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
.jpg)