In 1986, at the tender age of 15, while most teens were at the mall or learning how to smoke behind 7-Eleven, I had a job at a hair salon. And by “job,” I mean my mom paid a man named Wayne Michael to let me work there. This was a shocking twist I discovered only after I dared to complain about the labor conditions. Mainly that I was paid in sweaty, scented air and damp towels. “He doesn’t pay you,” my mom snapped. “I pay him to hire you.”

Excuse me? I thought I was part of the workforce. Tur...