A true Long Beach hero lost: Shirley Raines dies at 58

Shirley Raines might have been known as the Angel of Skid Row in DTLA, but Long Beach was her home. And nearly every Saturday in Skid Row, stability used to arrive in the form of a massive white van driven by Shirley from Long Beach. She eventually moved her work to Las Vegas, though would periodically visit Skid Row.

What will remain of that work is to be seen, as the organization announced the charismatic, tough leader had died this morning, Jan. 28.

“It is with profound sorrow and heavy hearts that Beauty 2 The Streetz announces the passing of our beloved CEO and founder, Shirley Raines, affectionately known to so many as Ms. Shirley,” the statement shared.

“Ms. Shirley dedicated her life to serving others and made an immeasurable impact on homeless communities throughout Los Angeles and Nevada. Through her tireless advocacy, deep compassion, and unwavering commitment, she used her powerful media platform to amplify the voices of those in need and to bring dignity, resources, and hope to some of the most underserved populations.”

The stories of Shirley Raines span multiple lifetimes

Shirley was personally responsible for advancing my career: in an article I wrote back in 2020 highlighting her story, I was granted the honor of telling her story. It not only scored me an LA Press Club award, Shirley gave me the best compliment ever. She told me it was her favorite piece done on her—which was huge because Shirley has been rightfully covered by tons of publications.

There are, quite literally, thousands of stories attached to Shirley and the people she helped on a weekly basis. For me, I distinctly remember Carmen. Before the boxes were unloaded. Before the hamburgers were stacked. And before the wigs were counted and the loudspeaker crackled to life—people like Carmen would already be waiting at the corner of 5th and Towne in DTLA. (Intersections would shift with the ever-shifting nature of Skid Row itself; in August of 2020, it was 5th and Towne). For Carmen, who drifted in and out of housing, that corner had become something close to home. Not because it was safe. Not because it was easy. But because Shirley Raines came there. Every week. Without fail.

“Hey there, Carmen,” Raines called out over her loudspeaker. “How are you doin’, Queen? We got wigs today. You can take three apiece.”

The sheer joy on Carmen’s face—the ability to have her hair resemble something she wants to actually have—was a moment that has been forever engrained in my many privileged moments of happiness in telling the stories of others.

‘I’m no angel; I’m broken’ is likely the most powerful thing I’ve heard Shirley talk about…

It was never just about the wigs. Or the showers. Or the food.

Shirley, a Long Beach resident and the founder of Beauty 2 The Streetz, understood something many systems never did: that the lack of a home does not mean a lack of humanity. Her mission was simple and radical in its tenderness—serve food and clothing, yes, but also serve dignity. Hair washed. Makeup applied. Faces reflected back in mirrors with care instead of shame.

“They call me an angel,” Raines said, “but I’m no angel; I’m broken. The homeless? They’re just like me: broken. The broken recognize the broken.”

Her work grew from grief. On September 6, 1990, five days before his third birthday, Raines lost her firstborn son. The loss fractured her life into before and after.

“The 30 years having lived after his death have been tumultuous,” she said. “I went on Prozac, came down with a panic and anxiety disorder… I couldn’t find a purpose for that level of pain.” That purpose arrived in the streets of Los Angeles, when she was asked to help feed the homeless. What she found instead was a mirror. “When I hit them streets and met these people, it hit me… they’re all broken, just like me. I felt completely at home.”

All people experiencing homelessness—queer, Black, trans, brown, undocumented, old, young…—were humans under Shirley Raines’s watch

She became “The Makeup Lady.” Then the woman who brought lashes. Then wigs. And then women’s clothing after transgender women told her shelters only offered them men’s clothes.

“They said they wanted women’s clothes because they’re women,” Raines said. “So I brought wigs. I brought heels. I brought eyelashes. Brought makeup… I wanted them to feel like the women they were.”

In Skid Row—neglect and manipulation, struggle and distrust run hand-in-hand—Raines built something rare: trust. Especially among women. Especially among trans women. And especially among those who had learned not to expect kindness without conditions.

“Not every Queen lives in a castle,” she would say.

What Shirley’s passing means is, for right now, unknown.

Now, with her passing, Skid Row will be a bit quieter than it already was when Shirley focused on Las Vegas more. It’s unsure if the van will pull up—but we know it won’t be Shirley driving it. The loudspeaker will no longer call people “Queen.”

But her work remains stitched into the lives she touched—into Carmen’s smile. Into the trans women who were finally seen as women. Into the hundreds—many rightfully angry, some mentally astray, many just needing a hand—who were reminded they were still worthy of softness in a world that had hardened against them.

Long Beach didn’t just lose a resident; it lost a hero. And Skid Row didn’t just lose a friend; it lost its steady heartbeat. And thousands of people lost someone who proved, week after week, that dignity is not something you earn—it is something you deserve.