the split
Twist and release. Coiled strands escape my finger tips as they shrink back into themselves. Some of them white - the mark of stress and wisdom. Some brown with a reddish tint hinting at lessons not yet learned. Each one tucked beneath a varying body of tightly and loosely wound spirals capped by split ends.
“These splits reveal themselves in varying ways. At times, full of the “American” pursuit. Other times, weighted by the unshakeable consequence of being in this skin...”
Splits begin at the end of journeys. Their story often narrated by divide at first and unity last. Hair, too, experiences divide in the form of split ends. I have them, plenty of them. My naturally thin strands, a deceiving voluminous cluster, are prone to them. Far from the root, the source of its life, the end of a strand is the oldest of its kind and as such the most susceptible to damage. Over time its bond is weakened - by heat, weather conditions, chemicals, and stress - making it unable to adhere and giving way to a separation in the hair shaft. The damage, however, never limits itself to the end from which it derived. Unaddressed, the split begins to work its way backward, up the shaft until it reaches the root. The path it leaves behind is paved in destruction, entangling itself with those surrounding and weaving them into its broken state. Even misery found in locks enjoys a little company. The only hope for reversal is a change in course - hair therapy. It’s the secret to every hair blogger’s success - minus the sponsorships - consisting of a trusty zero heat approach, conditioning treatments, regular trims, and a deep appreciation for volume when humidity strikes.
What does this have to do with this writing space? E V E R Y T H I N G .
What I’ve come to know of the splitting behaviors in my own hair are mere manifestations of the splits that exist in my being and, dare I say, yours.
Similar to the weakening of hair bonds, my story has been weakened by compromise and a muddled identity split between ancestral origins and nationality, foreign traditions and the American norms that rub so jaggedly against them. These splits reveal themselves in varying ways. At times, full of the “American” pursuit. Other times, weighted by the unshakeable consequence of being in this skin and its targeting features.
“What I’ve come to know of the splitting behaviors in my own hair are mere manifestations of the splits that exist in my being and, dare I say, yours.”
I’ve had to ask myself at every turn, ‘Am I white enough? Dominican enough?’ Because aligning myself to one or the other never comes without some backlash. So for a while, I played it safe, settled in and watched it ravage. Reducing myself to molds I groomed my hair, speech, behavior, and perceptions. Allowing the tension to carry me from one people-pleasing scene to the next…until the day I opted out of a perm. The unfamiliar kinks that sprang from my scalp months later made evident my ignorance. It was clear, I was split, and in more ways than one. To save the root and stop the damage, I would have to work my way back home from the end. Only then could I begin to nurse my soul back to a state of wholeness.
