Getting My Head on Straight
by Rachel Benjamin

When I worked downtown, in the late 1990s and early 2000, I would take the train to and from the World Trade Center. It wasn't the easiest way to get to work all the time, but there was plenty of eye candy-men dressed smartly on their way to their I-banking or trading jobs-and there was a collection of my favorite shops there, so it was enough to make any girl giddy. I'd sort through the sale rack at The Gap, test nail polishes on my pinky at Sephora, buy GMAT books at Borders, pick up plane tickets at the American Airlines counter near the Marriott, and buy shampoo and conditioner at Cosmetics Plus.

Things were good then. I was working and making money, and New Yorkers were mostly happy. We were all getting rich holding on to the string of the tech sector balloon. I was busy treating myself to all of life's little pleasures: buying the expensive beauty products¾things like Crabtree and Evelyn moisturizers and bath gels, various lip liners, hair clips and tchotchkes that clogged up the counter space in my bathroom. But, my biggest weakness was hair products.

During the fat years, my tub was lined with various selections from Paul Mitchell's Tea Tree hair product line, and I loved standing in the shower and feeling my scalp tingle from the minty scent of Australian tea tree. A diversion from Paul Mitchell had led to a brief flirtation with Aveda, but I quickly returned to my first hair love and had only occasional trysts with Aveda conditioner. And because every great love affair has to end, so did mine. When the fat times turned lean, I was forced to give up my fancy-schmancy hair products and buy something more affordable.

It was after the first six months I was in graduate school, when my Wall Street bonus was just about used up, that I saw that my supply of Paul Mitchell products was dwindling as well. Determined to string it out for as long as I could, I would stand in the shower each morning and, with excruciating precision, I would measure a dime-sized drop of shampoo onto the palm of my hand and then a quarter-sized dollop of conditioner to make my hair soft and shiny. Eventually, I had to steal extra long straws from Starbucks to reach into the bottom of the liter-sized white bottles, hoping to scrape enough residue to equal the size of any coin and be enough to cleanse my scalp.

I had long since given up buying clothing just for sport; I was wearing old flannels that I'd collected from J. Crew and Lands End over the years. And although I loved it, I couldn't justify forking over nearly $40 for Paul Mitchell products when that would pay most of my monthly electric bill.

I stood in the shampoo aisle of Duane Reade, and as I looked at the selection of hair care products that cost $1.99 and less, other customers would knock into me with their Prada and Kate Spade bags while walking directly to the more upscale products and thoughtlessly plucking them off the shelves. Breck, Suave, and White Rain ads came to mind. I tried to decipher between the packaging and marketing copy promises and then unscrewed each flavor and smelled the bottles. The scents ranged from chemically lavender to tacky coconut. The strawberry scented smelled nauseatingly sweet, and all the herbal selections weren't stocked, so I had to make a best-effort decision. I went with Suave at the end-mostly because Duane Reade was having a special, and with my bonus card I would save an extra 35 cents.

So, I returned to my bathroom and begrudgingly replaced my old favorites with my new products. They were smaller and less cumbersome than the Paul Mitchell predecessors, and the next morning, I started showering with them. They weren't bad, and I didn't notice anything about the quality of product, but I missed the tea tree and realized that over time I equated it with the feeling that my hair was really clean. On special nights, I would break out the $12 bottle of Aveda all-natural conditioner that I had socked away for emergencies that required me to look and smell sexy. I'd use the smallest amount necessary to lightly coat my brown curly strands. After it was dry, I'd stand with my head bent forward and pull my mop of hair to my nose to breathe in the floral scent that I loved. I went back and forth between feeling proud of my newly miserly habits and feeling sad that my finances were so pitiful. I calmed myself by thinking that I only had two more years of graduate school, and then I'd be back to work and a weekly paycheck.

Then September 11th happened.

People walked around New York in a fog of depression, not really sure how to process the events. In my mind's eye, I was still tooling around the Trade Center, munching on a hot Krispy Kreme doughnut and looking for sales. I still saw the hundreds of people all with different agendas looking anxious to get to appointments, to work, or home to their families. I didn't change out of my pajamas that day-let alone shower or wash my hair.

For most of us, our priorities and views changed-we are more vulnerable and life is more precious, in a way that could only happen after devastation. As I sat in my living room, oppressed by the heat and breathing in the stench of burning buildings and people 100 blocks south, I thought about how, just 18 months before, I would have been downtown at the New York Stock Exchange, quibbling with co-workers and getting ready for another day of trading. I carelessly twirled strands of my hair as I stared out the window toward New Jersey. Things seemed fragile and far more tepid than they'd ever been¾the attacks a loud and painful reminder to enjoy things in the present, that we don't know what the future brings.

Realistically, I knew that I would piss far more than $40 away on far more useless things, so why be frugal with the one extravagance that I'd enjoyed-and for that matter, why be frugal in other areas of my life-frugal with my time, my emotions and my desires.

Why had I chosen to turn my back on my desperate desire to be a writer and instead gone to Wall Street to pursue a career that I never wanted in the first place? And what ever made me think that the sensible, responsible path would bring me happiness? I had far more fun and felt more alive when I was making the inappropriate decisions-dating the wrong guys, staying out too late-and avoiding the sensible ones. I thought about what I might do after graduate school: Would it be the 'responsible' thing and return to a grueling 7am-9pm suit job every day, or try to make it as a free-lance writer?

So, on the afternoon of September 12-when I was thinking about the wreckage, about the changes in my city, about the lives lost and how we would move ahead, about my mortality¾I picked up my wallet and wandered out into the sea of people who were wafting through the streets unsure of what to do with themselves and bought two large liter bottles of Paul Mitchell shampoo and conditioner.

Rachel Benjamin is a frequent contributor to Arriviste Press. She is currently at work on her memoir as a phone sex operator in New York.