Serendipity...?

I must have walked past the outdoor Strand Books on Fifth Avenue at the Central Park entrance hundreds of times. But I never stop. Not until tonight at least.

It's a perfect summer night: mid-70's, low humidity. As I'm leaving the park, the sun has fallen behind the Central Park trees and if I were further into the park, I might see a firefly or two.

I see a sign to the effect of half off used books at the Strand stand and am intrigued. I finished a book weeks ago and lately have just been reading the news. As much as I love reading about Obama's healthcare plan and the Fatah conference, I could use a little fictionalized escape. I settle on two: Salman Rushdie's Fury and Ernest Hemingway's The Garden of Eden.

Now the Rushdie book's price is listed on the back in Pounds. I'm not sure I've ever seen this before. Usually the price of the books I peruse are listed separately in US and Canadian Dollars. So clearly it is a book that was originally sold in the UK, which seemed a bit odd to me. Before I could give it much thought, I make my purchase and head down to the subway to catch the N train home.

I begin reading on the train and next thing I know, I'm two chapters in and at my stop. I stuff my receipt just before chapter 2 and meander onto the platform to exit the station.

A few hours and several evening activities later, I settle onto my couch to continue reading. I'm mid-chapter 2 and shift the position of the book ever so slightly and out slides a small piece of paper from inside the book.

Puzzled, I hold up a London Underground 1 Day Travelcard from August 16, 2003. Huh?

I am so intrigued at this moment.

Whose ticket is this? I suddenly realize someone else owned and read this book. Well, duh, of course, it's used. But, now I have actual evidence. And they read it on "the tube."

What in the world does this ticket mean? Who does it belong to? As someone who tends to overthink things, I immediately wonder what I was doing on this date and its relation to me. Not wanting to lose my place in the story, I finish the chapter. Next I follow to peel through an old journal of mine. Rats, I started writing in it in November 2003. Next I realize I went to my first John Mayer concert in August 2003. I dig out the t-shirt I bought from the concert to look at the list of cities visited with the corresponding date. Rats, that was August 18, 2003. So what was I doing? Thinking perhaps a little historical context might help to remember, I google, "August 16 2003." I learn it is a Saturday. That was the day that power was restored in the blackout that struck the northeast for three days; but while the power went out in Niskayuna, where I now recall I was at the time, the power had gone back on Friday in Nisky. I don't think I was doing anything more than being a lazy bum that day. It was summer and I had finished an internship and a summer math class not too long before this, if my memory serves me right. Hmm. Perhaps I'll have to simply accept its connection to me isn't apparent for now.

And so, I have decided that once I finish reading the book, I will put a used up Metrocard inside, with the London Underground pass, and sell the book in a foreign city. Where should I go?

Everyone's a little v[e]in

The following was written on June 13, 2007 after I had a colonoscopy. To some this could be seen as gross or something that shouldn't be talked about. I disagree. On June 30, 2004, I was diagnosed with Crohn's Disease, an autoimmune digestive disorder that causes inflammation of the small intestine. Symptoms include nausea, fatigue, diarrhea (yes, I said it), vomiting and others. Some don't want to talk about it because the symptoms are taboo, but, a lot of people suffer and it's worth giving the subject a little light. To learn more about Crohn's Disease, visit www.ccfa.org.

"Everyone's a little v[e]in"

On Tuesday, my colon had its first photo shoot. Now, my colon isn't quite like other colons. It's shy. It's been victimized by terrorist cells (TNF-Alpha) and in turn, it has shriveled up, turned black, and tried to turn away from friends trying to pay a visit (food). We've tried and succeeded for the most part in rehabilitating it, but sometimes it reverts to its old ways. Lately it has been telling food to stay away, so my doctor figured we should investigate and do a little introspective analysis.

This was a big day for my colon. For the first 19 years of its existence, the terrorist attacks it endured were largely ignored. It was never taken seriously and was often blamed for the way its owner "faked" being sick. One hot day a few years ago, it was treated to a barium bath and was finally able to announce to the authorities that it wasn't lying after-all. It wanted to fight with the barium, but it wasn't quite a fighting organ, and the radioactivity took over and illuminated its faults. A new name it was given, Crohn's, as if intestine and colon weren't gross enough. With its new identity, came new attention and new friends. New friends were old friends. Bland food often eaten by babies often came for a visit.

With time and force by its host country, it healed. But, an offensive army, rather than one with a strong defense, it was no match to a fresh onslaught by the sleeper TNF-Alpha. It seems TNF-Alpha only fights when provoked by the larger, more threatening immune system. And TNF-Alpha may seem innocent, but it's a bit psychotic, because once it starts, it doesn't know how to stop. The colon was once again depressed and got sick again following a intense unrelenting bombing session. The authorities once again stepped in and equipped the colon with a new biologic treatment. The biologic treatment was a new, unfounded defense for the colon and it responded nicely. However, the biologic treatment often required a great deal of help from a "neutral" source in the blood stream. One could never fully trust this neutral source to do its job completely, especially when it started to become comfortable with its surroundings. In this case, it might stop working. But, it chugged along. Thanks to this neutral source, the colon could relax, meet new friends, go on vacation from being sad, and stretch its skin a bit. It started to heal.

Eventually what was good started to be taken for granted. The neutral source stopped working days and sometimes weeks before it was supposed to, allowing the sleeper TNF-Alpha to pass through its unwitting gates. The authorities had been bugging the host country to have some pictures taken for months, but the host country was reluctant. Why shake up the colon when it's keeping to itself? It was feeling ok and letting friends come for visits. But, it was time.

The colon does not want to comment on how it prepared for its photo shoot. And it honestly does not remember having its picture taken. Fortunately, we have a contact sheet. What was discovered was 75% of it is nice, healthy, and pink. Congratulations, colon. The other 25% is healing and still resembling a black hole. The neutral source has agreed to dispense its biologic treatment more frequently, so hopefully nothing will fall into the black hole. Hopefully it will be pink next time it has a photo shoot.

Hopefully one day we can stop the rogue immune system regime that dispenses TNF-Alpha at innapropriate times. The authorities need to learn more about its covert operations.

Surrey with a fringe on top ... in front of Ira

to set the scene...

It is a chilly spring afternoon, about 1:00 PM, and it is raining. It's that point of suspension when it's not really raining hard enough to need an umbrella, but raining just enough that the drops are frequent enough to want one.

I'm walking with a purpose near Cooper Square, on my way to the Astor Place subway stop to head Uptown to meet friends for a birthday brunch. John Mayer's "Bigger than my Body" plays at about half volume on my iPod. I stop somewhere in Cooper Square, obeying the solid orange hand commanding me to wait for the light to change before I cross the street and head down the subway steps.

I am lost in the dreary afternoon, possibly sleeping with my eyes open, until I slowly pan left and see a guy in front of me. I pan a little more left, still slowly, and see a familiar, yet forgetten face. As guitar continues to play in the background that is my iPod, I realize in slow motion that I recognize this person and reach into my left coat pocket and pause the music. Moments before the pause,

"Hey, what's up?"

Enter, the ex-boyfriend.

(And for the purposes of this blog, I will refer to him as, the "ex-boyfriend.")

We exchange pleasantries. Long time no see. How's it going? Are you still in Astoria? Where are you headed?

Through all of this, I suddenly realize that the walk signal must have come on and I missed it, because now the hand is flashing orange.

Realizing that we are both headed onto the same Uptown train, I offer, "You want to cross?"

He responds, "Yea."

So I begin walking and sense he is not following. Phew, that was a quick chance encounter and now it's over. (Well, wrong.) I cross the street andwalk down the subway steps by myself, headed for the Uptown 6, swipe my metrocard and walk right about 15 feet down the platform.

Not even 15 seconds later, I hear behind me,

"So, in a city of 9 million people we still run into each other?"

It's not over? I laughed, politely, and started up again that same conversation we had somehow begun above ground a few minutes before.

Awkward, but cordial, we catch up on the year plus of our lives. Vague details of his I did not care to hear. And vague details of mine that can be uncovered by reading my Facebook page. The train came, we sat down on the same blue bench.

Oh dear Lord, I thought, Astor Place to 96th Street. This is going to be one long subway ride.

The train moved and with each stop, I thought, make it go faster. Eventually and finally we arrived at 96th Street and parted ways before the turnstiles. I was using the Southwest exit and he... one of the East exits.

Awkward hug.

"Maybe we'll run into each other again?" He offered, probably lying.

"Yea," I returned with a polite smile. "Bye."

I walked away.

Do you remember that scene in "When Harry Met Sally," when Harry and Sally are in Sharper Image trying to find a housewarming gift for Jess and Marie and they happen upon the karaoke machine?

They are singing "The Surrey with a Fringe on Top" from the musical, "Oklahoma," and Harry stops like a deer in headlights, when he spots his ex-Wife with her new beau, Ira. While my situation was slightly different, it is those chance encounters that seem sometimes to be so quintessentially New York, but in reality are bound to happen in life, at moments when we are lost in, well, a moment. And when it is least expected.

What's in a name?

Elizabeth is my given name; my legal name. It is the name on my birth certificate and the name that people called me until I was old enough to correct them. Well, sort of.

I remember playing at my friend Sarah’s house and when I was around five years old. Sarah called me Liz and I quickly scolded her.

“Only some people can call me Liz.”

I meant only my friends can call me Liz.

It wasn’t long thereafter that everyone was calling me Liz, at my insistence. I ditched Elizabeth for practical purposes and only my grandma was calling me Elizabeth. (She eventually got the memo when I was a teenager after I didn’t have the heart to correct her all those years.)

When Elizabeth was used, it was when I was in trouble and my middle name, Miriam, usually followed behind. Although since I was such a well-behaved child, the combination barely reared its head. I resented my name for being old (Queen Elizabeth), really ridiculously long to spell and say, and well, for just being my name. Doesn’t everyone hate their name at some point?

As for its age, to the average person, Elizabeth is old and historic. It is one of those names that carries a regal stature and never seems to go out of style, regardless of the weird names babies are given every day. But it’s even older than you might think. It doesn’t originate in England or with someone known for being a virgin (and a queen).

When I was in college, a roommate of mine who looked down on me for being less religiously observant than her once lamented,
“Elizabeth Foreman. That sounds like such a waspy name.”

What? Yea, ‘cause Foreman is so waspy, I thought. Please note I don’t like to use or perpetuate the phrase “WASP,” which stands for White Anglo-Saxon Protestant. There’s nothing wrong with being in that category, but rather the connotation in which the term is often used is what is offensive.
I responded, “What? It’s not waspy at all. What are you talking about?
“Actually, Elizabeth comes from the Bible,” I continued.

Ha! I beat the yeshiva girl at her own game.

If you look up Elizabeth in any name book or frankly Google Elizabeth, it will read as meaning something to the effect of being “consecrated from God” and Hebrew in origin. Elisheva – Exodus 6:23. Elisheva was Aaron’s wife and consequently, sister-in law to Moses and Miriam. And Miriam is my middle name! Jewish royalty! Sort of.

When Mom and Dad named me, they toiled with an S instead of a Z, but legend has it that Dad thought people would spell it wrong so they stuck with the traditional Z. EliZabeth. And Mom insists I am not named after anyone, well my first name at least.

I still cannot avoid my abnormally long name for legal purposes. On standardized tests in school, I was inevitably Elizabet, because it would only accept 8 letters. Poor h was always cut off. I unconsciously hoped year after year that the upcoming test would leave space for 9 letters. Nope. Never. Somewhere in some drawer in New York State there are a lot of newsprint tests with No. 2 pencil marks bearing the name Elizabet Foreman. Or maybe in a lot of drawers. Or maybe they’ve been shreaded. I hope the latter.

And one day it became Liz, at least in every day practice. I still grapple with how I should be referred to professionally, but usually default to Liz. Those who slip in an Elizabeth every now-and-then at work give me anxiety (again, the whole being in trouble thing) and show a lack of attention to detail. But I’ll let it slide, because after-all, only my friends call me Liz.

The following are variations of my name, which I have been called. I’ll allow these for those who are stuck somewhere between Elizabeth and Liz.

Lizbip – my brother
Liza (read Leeza) – Greek neighbor
Aliza (read Aleeza) – Israelis, to whom lamed-yud-zion does not make sense
Eli (read Ellie) – unnamed co-worker
Htebazile – college roommates

I heart NY

I was 12. I was 12 when I fell in love with New York City. It was February and I was visiting my Great Aunt Pat in Chelsea with my mom. At the golden, yet awkward, age of 12 I was - you guessed it - in town shopping for Bar and Bat Mitzvah dresses to be prepared for many a Shabbat of the simchas of my peers, plus my own. It was an unseasonably warm February day and the tulip stems had begun to peak through the bed of dirt outside Aunt Pat's apartment building. Maybe the smell of spring caught me. Maybe it was the endless shopping. Maybe it was the hustle and bustle. Whatever it was, I fell in love with New York and vowed to return.

Fast-forward ten years to New Jersey. I was finishing up my final semester at Rutgers University and commuting two days a week into Manhattan for an unpaid internship. I would wake up at 6:00 AM, hustle in my heels, sometimes through freshly fallen snow on Stone Street and Easton Ave., down to the New Brunswick train station, and an hour and a half later, I would arrive on the 36th floor of 350 Fifth Avenue. (You should Google 350 Fifth Avenue. OK, OK. It's the Empire State Building.) I was impressed by the revolving doors and excited that I could sneer at the tourists and be the cool one who was going inside. The truth is there was nothing glamorous about the entire experience, except that it was an experience. Whenever I smell burnt rubber I automatically associate it with New Jersey Transit train I would inhabit for two plus hours each day. I was also working in a gritty part of New York. The Fashion District isn't exactly a part of New York to be proud of. It's dirty, smelly, overcrowded, full of annoying tourists, but I kind of love it. Okay, I have a love/hate relationship with the Fashion District.

The goal with the internship was to land a job. April arrived and I had no job. I was graduating on May 18 and I gave myself one option: New York City. Oh, yea, a job and New York City. I applied and applied. Suddenly I found a friend who also wanted to move to New York. And she had a friend who was also in New York and wanted to move. And then suddenly one day we all met up and looked at apartments. We talked about living in Manhattan. But "talked about" was as far as it got. We walked around Park Slope. And somehow we meandered our way to Astoria on the G train. (This was my first and last experience with G train!!) We called a landlord for a place we found on Craig's List. It was a dream apartment. But, you can't sign at the first place you see, no? We looked somewhere else and realized this was a steal. A few days later, we were sealed. I signed the lease without a job.

A few days later, I got a job offer, which I accepted. And on May 18 I graduated. And on May 19 I moved into my apartment on 30th Ave. in Astoria. This coming Friday, I will move out of this very apartment and into my own place sans roommates. After nearly three years in the most wonderful city in the world, I have discovered more reasons why I love New York and many reasons that I never would have known had I lived in Manhattan all this time. Allow me to share...

• When the TV is off, I can often hear the brakes of the subway car and the next stop announcement for "Broadway" on a Manhattan-bound train from inside my apartment. Love it...
• The smelly fresh fish market across the street from the storefront with dead chickens hanging from the window display, down the street from Zagat-rated Ovelia.
• Hearing at least four different languages on my street at any given time.
• The view of the Manhattan skyline at night after the turn following Queensboro Plaza. Nothing beats a view of the lit-up Empire State Building and Chrysler Building.
• In the morning sunlight, right before the 7 train turns into Hunters Point. The multi-color graffiti in Long Island City, PS1 and the midtown Manhattan skyline in background. Sprinkle in a few Long Island City high rises to ruin the Manhattan view.
• Getting body-slammed nearly every morning transferring from the N train at Queensboro Plaza. The people who ride the 7 train are tough and forget that in order to get on the train, others need to get off first.
• Noticing a sharp demographic shift when leaving the N train and boarding the 7.

A Culture of Debt

Fighting the cold on a blustery March morning, I walked into my bank on Third Avenue. I was greeted by a bank employee. Once she found out the reason for my visit, we went to her desk. While processing my request, she noticed on my account that I have been pre-approved for a credit card that the bank offers.

This bank tells me literally every time I make a transaction, whether with a teller or at the ATM, that I have been pre-approved for this very credit card. I always say “no, thanks.” I already have a credit card with this bank and I have no desire for another card. I pay my bill in full every month, so what would be the purpose of another bill to pay, another thing to keep track of, something else to worry about in an already busy and pressing world?

Realistically for me, the only impetus to open a new account would be to close my previous account. The card being offered has slightly different features than my current card, offering a larger amount of points on purchases that I make frequently, while my current card offers just one point per dollar spent. More points would equal more gift cards I can select from or a larger amount of cash back, at the end of the day. I told her it sounds enticing, but that I am preparing to move in the coming weeks and could not spare the hassle of canceling one account and opening another at this time. I would consider it in a few months.

The bank employee countered that there would be no harm in opening an additional credit card.

“Do you shop on the net?” She asked.

“Yes,” I responded. Who doesn’t?

“Well most people have a separate credit card for purchases on the net, so if there are ever any problems with the card, they know it comes from the net.”

I have never met anyone who has admitted to having a separate credit card for online purchases. Anyone who pays attention to their credit card statement should not need to have a separate card to check for fraudulent purchases. That is perhaps one of the stupidest justifications for having an additional card I have heard.

She then added that another additional card is helpful to prevent overdraft of another account.

“I don’t overdraft,” I quickly asserted. “And I have good credit and want to keep it that way. I have no reason for having an additional credit card.”

“Well, actually, you can have up to seven credit cards before it is bad for your credit,” she responded.

Seven. 7.

As shocking as the number seven is, I had heard this before. There must be some validity to this statement. For someone single with few expenses like me, there is no reason whatsoever to have so many credit cards.

It was at this moment that a man came over to the cubicle and introduced himself as one of the bank managers. He had heard the tale end of the “seven credit card” thing and reinforced that it is in fact good to have several credit card accounts open. Up to seven. He boasted that it is good for your credit.

“I have excellent credit. It doesn’t make sense to me why I should take on the responsibility of paying and keeping track of another bill when I simply do not need it. To me, this seems like this culture is the reason why we are in such a financial mess right now.”

I don’t pretend to be an economist and openly admit I am often miffed by some of the things going down (literally) in both the US economy and in the world; however, I understand the basics. Homeowners and potential homeowners were offered irresponsible loans by a variety of parties interceding for the banks, which ultimately supplied this money. Other firms “bet” on these loans and on the firms backing these loans, homeowners were unable to pay and it spun out of control. However you would like to characterize this as spiraling up, trickling down or simply causing a chain-reaction, our economy is in trouble stemming from irresponsible loans. Debt.

At some point the money had to run out. And while I have a lot of issues with bailouts, stimulus packages, tax relief, etc., etc., etc., I am not taking issue with that here.

The American culture has a serious problem with promoting debt. We are working hard to find recovery for large American companies that are serious trouble, but we have no plan in place to reinforce the culture of debt.

Banks earn their money off of loan and credit card fees and interest rates and yes, this is their business. Their bread and butter. But I have a credit card already. Should it be continually pushed in my face? Shouldn’t I be rewarded for being responsible?

The bank manager and I delved into a conversation about the financial crisis and who was at fault. I told him that consumers should not be lead onto a path where they have to pay off several credit cards. I reasserted that this culture of debt is the reason why banks are in trouble.

“Not this bank,” he told me, following to list four other banks that landed on their feet despite what has transpired the last few months.

“Right now I am fortunate to have no debt. I have few expenses: I don’t own a car, I don’t own a house. I pay my bills completely every month. But one day, I will buy a car, I will buy a house and I will go to graduate school and I will need loans for all of those things. And now, because of other people’s irresponsibilities, it will be even more difficult for me to get a reasonable loan. Even though I am responsible and pay off my purchases when they are due, I will pay the price. And that is not fair.”

Fortunately by this point I received a receipt for my transaction and it was time to leave. We shook hands and off I went.


Fixing the current economic crisis in the manner in which they are doing it will only result in the treatment of the symptoms of the problem. If on this day in March I am still told I can open seven credit card accounts without problem, we did not learn the lessons of the last few months. In the long-term, we need to target the root cause. We are in a culture of debt, and the lenders encourage dishonesty.

The Jewish Straightening Method

The Japanese-

The Brazilian-
(no not that kind of Brazilian...)

The Jewish-

?

Since the beginning of January, I have been straightening my hair. Many people have asked me how I straighten it, attempting to prompt me to respond that it has been chemically straightened. No, I have not used some nationality's commercial straightening method. I have heard good things about the Japanese straightening method and the newer Brazilian. Since seeing how silky smooth my hair is just from a flat iron (secret's out, ladies!), I looked into the Brazilian. It is much less expensive than the Japanese and tends to have a better track record. However, a lot of websites warn the chemical used to straighten the hair may also contain carcinogens. As much as I love my hair, no product is worth that risk.

That being said, I've decided that I live in a world of many opportunities and possibilities. Why should I (semi-) permanently straighten my hair when I can just have The Jewish Straightening Method?

A girl needs options. And frankly, I like having them.

I am often asked how my curls work (when I wear them) and now that I am getting the question daily about whether my hair is permanently straightened, I have decided to let my secrets to The Jewish Straightening Method out of the bag. Well, most of them.

Before I fess up, let me first put this disclaimer: There is nothing inherently Jewish about the way in which I style my hair. Jews have curly, straight, wavy, frizzy hair and some Jews have thin hair, some have thick. Some even have no hair (God forbid). While there is a stereotype that Jews have thick, curly hair (hence the term, "Jew-fro" and many others I don't use), not all fall into this category. I have simply reached a place in my life where I finally know how to appease this mangled mess of hair my genetic code has passed along to me. Whether "Jewish" or not, I finally love my hair.

Please allow me to share this love.

The Jewish Straightening Method:

1) Find an amazing hair stylist.

If you have curly hair, you do not need to go to a fancy curly hair salon like Devachan (http://www.devachansalon.com/) or Ouidad (http://www.ouidad.com/) in NYC. I was once nearly brainwashed and told that I needed to embrace my hair. I made an appointment at Devachan and upon confirmation I was told that even though my stylist was new, that it would cost $145 and I was expected to pay this upon receipt of service. I knew that would make me buy all their products, possibly swear to worship them forever, which would cost more money. I quickly informed them I would be cancelling my appointment.

I did, however, listen to what my co-worker said about how she styled her hair, the one who had referred me to Devachan.

Many months and many bad haircuts later, I took a chance on a new hair salon in my neighborhood. I made an appointment at Saloon (http://www.saloonhaircolor.com/) with Joe. Within five seconds of taking a look at my hair, Joe knew exactly how to cut my hair. Layered and texturized, I left a happy girl.

A good hair cut isn't the be-all, end-all, though. You have to do your part.

2) Know the curly process

My co-worker, who went to Devachan, told me that following her shower (where she does not rinse out her conditioner), she takes strands of her hair and twirls them into curls. Banking on this whole "not rinsing out conditioner" thing, I was baffled at how a girl could not rinse the conditioner out. Just sounds gross. So I continued to shampoo and condition, but I added leave-in conditioner once I was out of the shower.

Zing!

Nexxus Headress Weightless Leave-in Conditioner. It is $20 a bottle, but you only need a small quarter-sized amount each time. I have a lot of hair and the bottle lasts more than six months.

Pantene Pro-V Products

I have, for years, used Pantene products. Since I am adding mousse (I'll get to that) and thus drying out the hair with product in addition to the natural elements, I started using Pantene's Pro-V Restoratives Time Renewal shampoo, in addition to the same type of conditioner. While it's meant to restore damaged hair in a month, I use it year-round. When I go cheap and don't use it for a while, my hair isn't as perky.

After the shampoo, the conditioner and finally the leave-in conditioner, I scrunch my hair and apply mousse: Pantene Pro-V Classic Styling Mousse. I have used the mousse for curly hair, but find the curling mousse makes my hair more frizzy than the others (I have also found that the pantene shampoos and conditioners for "smooth and silky" hair tend to give me a fuller curl than the ones for "curly" hair).

Once the mousse is in, I take strands of hair and made Shirley-temple style curls. I let it dry naturally and never expose the curls to a hair dryer. Frizzy curls are not happy curls!

3) The Straightening Method

I owe it all to Maxi-glide. The other nuances and techniques simply would flop if it were not for this amazing flat-iron.

http://www.maxiusbeauty.com/

Another co-worker, who happens to be African-American, told me about this one. When she told me about all the chemicals and products she's used through the years and saw how absolutely gorgeous her hair was, I simply had to have the maxi glide. I wash my hair with Pantene Pro-V restorative shampoo and conditioner. After the shower, I put on Nexxus leave-in conditioner. I either allow it to dry naturally (but who has the time?) or blow dry it.

Then I allow the Maxi Glide to do its magic. The Maxi Glide has one side of the flat-iron where steams come out of in order to straighten the hair. The other side has small "teeth" like a small comb that smooths the hair. There is also a button on the straightener where you can make steam come out (for ends and unruly frizzy sections). There is a specific technique to using a flat-iron that you can't explain in a blog, but check out the user manual before you buy it and use good mirrors. The maxi glide gets hot and if you're not careful, you can burn yourself easily.

It takes me at least an hour. Keep in mind I have a lot of hair!

I would not say it's easy by any stroke of the imagination, but gives a beautiful straightening job, without the salon expense. I never washed my hair every day (she needs a break every once and a while) and when I straighten it, I usually wait 3, 4 and sometimes 5 days before straightening it again. It's important to be kind to your hair, regardless of how thick it is (and mine is thick).

In reading about the Brazilian straightening method, I learned that it straightens by way of Keratin proteins and a lot of steam straightening. Nexxus leave-in conditioner contains Keratin proteins. And the Maxi Glide lets off steam!

The Jewish Straightening Method gives you options.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=M5y9A4DKmjM