lousy

Lousy. I only fully understood the meaning of the word when a small but persistent legion of lice stationed itself on my head recently. They found it congenial there, apparently, the little lice. Just the job. Fine views from the high ground and plenty of thick follicular cover made for optimum conditions. And a hardy crew they turned out to be. Immune, seemingly, to the special shampoos on sale at a not inconsiderably modest price, and guaranteed to eliminate the lot of them, eggs, nymphs, lice, the works. How they must have laughed as I emptied the contents on top of them, and waited stoically in the shower for ten minutes, as instructed, getting colder by the minute, but happy, at least, to be dishing out their last rites. Was I heck. They just hunkered down, en masse, and held their breath. Worked a treat.

Until a month ago, headlice were both an urban myth and a distant memory. They only invaded clean hair. They only invaded dirty hair. Once upon a time, before digital photography, when mums wore flares for the first time, I had nits. But that was aeons ago. And then, last month, my eldest son scratched his head. And even then, I didn’t believe, refused to believe, headlice were an actual thing, afflicting us, right now. They got to me, literally and metaphorically. Resisted the lotions. Resisted the comb. Overwhelmed my defences. Disturbed my peace. Just when I thought I was on top of it, prompt remedial action taken, up they popped again. Itch, scratch, bummer, comb. A carousel of gloom.

I’ve got a plan. There’s a business. Makes it its business to get rid of them, properly, naturally. I’ve booked an appointment for me and my son. “You can now relax”, the email reads. “If there are any nits and head lice in there we will find them”. It isn’t often in life that a problem can be guiltlessly transferred. My headlice are now out of my hands. And hopefully, soon, off my head.