
I am currently in an interracial relationship, with a loving, honest, and committed man. We have been dating for a year and a half, and in that time I have had to struggle with racial issues that have come from outside and from within. One of the most difficult issues though, has stemmed from my head.
My hair had always been an area of exasperation for me growing up, and since my parents were diplomats with Unicef, we spent much of our time in "third world" countries, where products were not always accessible.
My parents, an interracial couple, have backgrounds as dissimilar as their color. My father hails from a white Jewish family in Pennsylvania and my mother a black Catholic family from a small fishing village in Ghana.
They met while my father was teaching English with the Peace Corps in West Africa. Their union spawned children with medium toned skin and curly hair that would turn blond in the hot African sun.
We were an anomaly in Africa, and people saw us as bofre and bruni, terms used to describe the white man. Even though we stood out, we were more a curiosity to the other children, who would constantly be touching and picking at our heads, sometimes pulling out little strands of curly straw hair as keepsakes. Once a week my father would sit me down with a brush and comb and try to exorcise the tangles. This was a painful ordeal that would last an hour, and by the end I would be in tears.

I came to believe that the hairs on my head were somehow connected to my stomach. Every time he pulled, my stomach would pull, leaving me nauseous. My brothers nicknamed me volcano head because my hair erupted into a giant mass above my head and a lava flow of tears would run down my face.
At the age of 14, I had had enough.