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.

We were living in Ankara, Turkey at the time, and I was still sporting my parents favorite style -- a pony tail to the back of my head. My folks called it a pompy do, which was embarrassing enough if anyone ever asked. I decided to experiment, so I pulled my hair into a side ponytail. This produced a massive poof ball of hair to the right of my head. Thinking I looked very fashionable, I went to school with my head held high, feeling beautiful for once. This feeling was not to last.
I was sitting quietly in music class when a kid behind me yelled ''Hey! I can't see past Brody's two heads!'' I was mortified as every one in class laughed. I got up and went to cry alone in the women's bathroom.
It was my friend Vicki who came to my rescue. She took me to a hair salon for the very first time. The stylist saw my mound of hair and was determined to tame it. With roller brushes and blow dryers he worked tirelessly, and when he spun me around in the chair, I was speechless. My once tangled and unruly hair was stick straight, smooth and soft, and hung beautifully down my back. I was reborn!

I would spend the next 18 years confined to my curling iron; running away from rainstorms; avoiding jumping into any body of water; searching for air conditioning to avoid sweating out my roots; and spending no less than an hour a day taming what I saw as the beast. For ten of those years I was a hair model, and I spent over $30,000 to maintain my locks. After my modeling days were over, I became tired of the time wasted blow drying and straightening, so I had my trusted stylist do it for me. I was less obsessed with my hair, and more interested in my new career as a relationship coach.
The turning point came on a trip, which would be filled with first times. My boyfriend and I had decided to take a weekend jaunt to the sunny beaches of Miami, to chase away the winter blues. Whenever I go some place humid, I don't fight the weather, but rather let my hair go natural and wild. This was the first time my boyfriend had seen my hair in its natural state, and he became instantly enamored.
He said I looked so beautiful with curly hair, and wondered why I hadn't worn it this way before. That evening we went out to dinner, and as we kissed he said ''I love you'' for the very first time. I believed him wholeheartedly, because I had shed the veil of my old identity and allowed my true and natural self to shine through. Looking in the mirror I realized that my natural hair is so beautiful, and for the first time I started to embrace my real self.

The struggle continued though, because I wanted to hold onto what I had always known. It was safe and provided me with the security that I would be accepted in the world. My boyfriend kept asking me to wear it natural, and saying how much he loved it; my mind wanted to clutch to what I perceived as normal. It was my hair stylist who helped me to make the decision for myself. She told me that my boyfriend wanted a wild woman in his bed. Someone who looked as if she had just crawled out of the African bush; and that once I had made the transformation back to my crazy hair, he would leave me for someone with smooth, straight, beautiful hair.

The crazy thoughts began to swim like sharks in my mind. What if she's right? Who would think this mass of unruly, wild hair is beautiful? Oh no! I don't want to lose his love. I felt fear within me, and as a coach it set off warning bells, that I was catching the crazy. My own stylist was manipulating me with this awful perspective so that I would continue to pay for her services. Suddenly I began to see how I had let all these other people, who couldn't love me for who I was, dictate what was beautiful in life. I had shown my true self to one man, and he loved me just the way god created me. He allowed me to love myself wholly and that is the definition of beautiful.