Photo by Nina Strehl on Unsplash

I don’t know what finally gave me the courage, but I knew I wanted out. I was tired of being trapped, ruled by the cellophane wrapped bundles of Brazilian curly and Remi straight, number 1B. I felt like an addict — a slave to weave. My drug dealer was an affable Korean man in his 40’s who ran a beauty supply store in a run-down mall downtown. He had an impressive knowledge of all things extensions, from texture to length to what color would be best to experiment with; honey…