When I was young, everything was easy. No friend issues, no ginormous chores, but especially no befuddled feelings about one's race.

You see, I am a unique woman. Of the mixed heritage, to be exact. My mother is black and my father is Arabian. If you want to know what happens when you mix the two, well, then here I am.

I was always told to care for and love my hair. I thought: " I do love my hair and I do care for it, but why is my hair different?". This thought was just one of the many reasons why I formed a growing hatred for myself. It was awful and heartbreaking, but at such a young age, I didn't know where to go if I was going to find help.

Of course, my mom knew I loved my hair. She just didn't quite understand the hate I felt for myself.

I used TONS of products on my unique hair as I got older. The variety of shampoos made my hair look luscious and curly, bringing out the best in my smile. 

As the days flew by, many of my family members passed away due to poor mental health. One morning I was looking at a photo of my late aunt's funeral when a question came to mind. " Mom?" I asked. " What did Aunt Katherine die of?" 

   " Well, poor mental health, like the rest of them, but her mental issues were different. She was bullied at a young age and the pain of all that stayed with her. And so she got very ill. And..." Mom explained, stuttering a bit near the end.

In 6th grade, I had a bit of an afro style done to my hair. Mom and Dad agreed that it looked really good on me. But the day after...

I found a girl who was just like me, mixed heritage and all that. But she made fun of my afro and the others followed her lead. I felt so bad that the hatred for myself doubled in size.

"Who am I even supposed to be?" I wondered.

2 weeks later, my afro was gone and I had straight hair. Mom had protested at first, but Dad said I could do whatever I pleased with my curls.