Summer 1997

Just as I discover a louse scampering across my young daughter’s blonde mane, my sister-in-law, she of the perfect tresses, the tailored pantsuit, the fashionable footwear, glides into our family cottage.  When she eyes my yellow-latex-gloved fingers darting through Hilary’s head, she skids, then totters on her spiked heels.

“We have a lice problem,” I say.

“Cool!” my eleven-year-old son says to his cousin. “Now we can get our heads shaved!”

My sister-in-law shudders, backs up, and leaves, screen door bouncing behind her.  When she returns, we douse five heads with lice shampoo, strip seven beds; bundle up a dozen bags of bedding, clothing and stuffed animals; vacuum floors, upholstery, and mattresses; and spritz every room with a product which warns against any contact with skin, eyes, clothing or pets.  Several hours later, my children and I sink into a laundry-laden, battered Buick™ and head for home.

It’s Labor Day weekend, school starts Tuesday, and I need my head examined.

The school nurse is unavailable, so Elaine, a colleague who’s de-bugged more than her share of scalps, makes her first house call.  

Wearing worn jeans and a too-tight top, I slump forth on the kitchen table, forehead perched on my arms, hair disheveled, eyes wide shut. I look like a Dateline suspect collapsed in an interrogation room.

We share an uneasy intimacy as Elaine stands behind me, dons her specs, slips on white gloves, leans in, and trolls through my scalp.  

“Oh, Lynn,” she murmurs.

OH, NO.

“These nits.  They’ve been nesting here … a very long time.”

Nesting?

A very long time?   

Vermin have been poking my capillaries like mini vampires, procreating like bunnies, super-glueing eggs by the dozens on my bleached-out mop, playing hide and seek on the dips and bumps in my scalp –  and except for some vague notion that my head has seemed a little swirly, a little tingly, a bit more off than usual, I’ve never noticed? 

Yes, I’m a scatterbrain.  Yes, my head routinely rockets from one thought to another, and yes, I once wore not one, not two, but THREE pairs of underwear – and didn’t know it until I raced out of the school bathroom with two pastel cotton granny panties halfway down inside my pantyhose.  More than once I’ve arrived at work in mismatched shoes of different heights or colors.  Hours into the day, I’ve discovered old socks balled up in my pants. For a photo shoot, I once dressed my baby son in a sweater that was upside down – and backwards. Thinking it was a pocketbook, I once gifted a diaper bag to a sixth grader. I’ve left chicken in the oven for a week and mice in an uncovered bucket overnight in a classroom closet filled with thousands of dollars worth of candy. 

But still, a lice lair? For a VERY long time? 

Stalwart and calm, my colleague continues her quest through my mess. Her fingers part the tangled underbrush. Her eyes scan for camouflaged creatures, wanted dead or alive. Her breath ripples warm and moist on my scalp. 

“Hey, how did you get this big bump?” 

Big bump? On top of everything else I have a TUMOR?

Now starring as my lice-catcher, detective and phrenologist, Elizabeth guides my hand to the hump. “Oh that?” I twirl my index finger over the knot in my scalp. “That’s a wen.”  

“A what?”

“A wen.  A harmless cyst.”

I fancy myself funny and add, “Do you think lice are nestled in there, huddled away from the bleach, the hot rollers, the hairspray, the Dippity Doo™?”

Elaine laughs and keeps nit-picking, flicking shell after shell from her fingertips like so many sesame seeds.  

Good deed done, my de-licer departs.  I down a bottle of Burgundy, drench my head with more sudsy shit, and tug a fine-toothed comb through the gray underbelly of my scalp, leaving splayed split ends toppled in the wake.  I tear through my locks again and again, faster and faster, don’t stop ‘til the wastebasket teems with tangled snarls, “rats” my mother used to call them. I’m ripping out rats to kill pests in my head. 

Before I go bald or totally buggy, I make the dreaded calls.

“I’m sorry, but your child may have been exposed to lice.”

“Oh, no.”

Ahm, yes.

“And where did YOU get them?”

“Who knows?” hurdles out of my mouth.

At our family camp, kids tumble in and out and share beds, pillows, blankets, sleeping bags, bathing suits, towels, drinks, food, hats, toothbrushes, toys, and animals. They drag in water, sand, mud, leaves, ants and spiders. They trade in sniffles, angst and giggles. They drip with sunscreen, bug repellent, blood, sweat, tears and popsicle drool. No matter that I’m a teacher, when it comes to supervising my own brood, chaos rules. There’s no telling who brought the first louse to this shindig. 

  This is all too much for my pulsating head. My summer has been, as the RAID™ slogan says, “Killed Dead.” 

I slip into something comfortable: a stupor.

Twenty-four hours later, Hilary drags me out of bed and points me towards normal. I throw on my chenille bathrobe, lumber downstairs to the answering machine, press PLAY and find out gossip spreads faster than lice. 

BEEP: Hi Lynn. This is the school nurse.  I understand you have a problem.  Please know this can happen to anyone and I’m here if you need me.  BEEP: This is your sister.  I have a new question to add to our family trivia game: Which family member has the worst case of lice?  BEEP: This is your brother.  You forgot to clean the camp refrigerator. It’s full of food. Thanks a lot.  BEEP: Hey, Lynn, this is Carol. Why don’t you come over for a glass of wine?  I’ve found a man to scratch your head. 

I’m ripe to rip off my robe and race to Carol’s, but the next message stops me in my knee socks: I received your letter and I want to apologize. I hope we can start anew…

Before I can process that this California company has actually responded to my complaint about their service, the phone rings. It’s the same woman, a marketing manager. The line crackles. 

“I’m sorry I haven’t returned your call,” I stammer. “I’m in the middle of a lice problem.”

“Oh I’m having a life problem, too,” she says.  “I start maternity leave tomorrow.”

On top of everything else, I’m a nit wit.  

Despite this knucklehead nonsense, fall falls into winter and my life returns to semi-normal. And now, late at night, when I’m nestled ‘neath my blankets and my scalp begins to stir, this is what I tell myself: Forget bugs – there are stories skittering in my head, funny true tales, just biding their time until summer, when I can cleanse my head and set them free.