You were a young mother with an adorable little girl of about four twirling around your legs while you shopped. I noticed her because the ringlets that framed her face were so similar to my childhood locks that I had to look twice. I tried not to stare at you -- I know the danger of strangers eyeing others outright -- but I was drawn to you because I was once that child, and my mother, given two mixed children, had no idea what to do with our hair.

Our complexion drew the adoration of strangers, this blend of cocoa and cream into a cinnamon blend. Our hair was gossamer once, until it grew tangled and dry and "nappy" due to our mother's confusion over how to deal with it. It took me the last couple of years to figure out what worked for my hair, and it seemed too late, so finally, off it all came in a relieving cascade of dye-tortured locks.

And so when I looked at you, when I saw her dancing, so sure of herself and the purity of the world around her, I saw myself captured in her flyaway locks. I wanted, in all seriousness, to approach you, to fawn over your little girl, to tell you that you were doing a great job.

I wanted to suggest products to you that would ease your education into the world of black hair, into the oil and the aridity that can be our lot; I wanted to tell you about the creams and sprays and lotions and combs that would have made my mother's life so much easier, and by extension my own.

But more than that I wanted to talk with you about the struggles that mixed-race children have in this world, caught between two nations of colour, two cultures. Biracial, multiracial -- there is always someone attempting to box us into a race, force us to choose, examine our features and tell us how we are seen by white America. I wanted to tell you that you weren't alone, that seeking out spaces rich with people of colour and learning from their experiences would be a testament to your love for your little girl, that maybe no one had ever told you that was all right to do.

I wanted to do all of these things, say all of these words, but I turned away. My anxiety spoke and barred me from saying a word, and I have regretted it ever since. But mothers of mixed girls, of mixed children, and fathers also: you are not alone. Seek out those who might teach you. Give your children the gift of both worlds. They will thank you for it.