Infestation
“He’s INFESTED,” she said in a low voice to Elizabeth, who was hard at work combing through my shoulder length hair. All the muscles in her body contracted to convey her disgust as she returned to the chair where she was combing through an eight year old boy’s shiny blonde locks.
Elizabeth, late forties with her bleach blonde hair pulled tight in a ponytail, kept combing as she replied, “you better put a t-shirt on, or else you are going to get lice.” The boy continued sucking a lollipop while holding tight to his Nintendo DS, oblivious to the cringing effect the inhabitants of his scalp were having on Maria, his delouser. The lollipop had been given to him minutes earlier when he began crying due to her heavy hand pressing down on his scalp with the stainless steel nit comb.
I winced alongside the boy. Elizabeth, the salon owner, was equally heavy handed. After a decade in the lice removal business, she knew that being gentle does not cut it. I wasn’t given a lollipop for my ordeal. I was given morsels of juicy gossip to distract me from the pain instead.
The boy and his brunette athleisure wearing mother had walked in right as Elizabeth was cutting through my rubber band and letting my nit riddled shoulder length hair out of its bun.
“Well we were just at Snip-its, and they refused to cut his hair because of the lice, so here we are,” the Mom announced.
“Don’t worry we’ll take care of you,” Elizabeth replied over my shoulder, using her comb to point at the empty chair in front of Maria.
“Good. He’s flying to his Dad’s tonight for the summer. Thanks for squeezing him in. I just know his Father will cut his hair. We were just on the phone and I told him not to do it.” She sighed, “anyway, it’ll be his problem soon.”
“Where is he flying to? He needs to be rechecked in a week,” said Elizabeth.
“Utah. That’s where he moved to when he left me.”
Elizabeth didn’t miss a beat, “Utah is lovely. All summer? That’s going to be hard, but at least you will have some me time!” Clearly a salon is a salon; if you have a comb in your hand, people will spill their guts.
The Mom placed her hands on her hips and leaned backwards, stretching her back. “I know. This will be the second summer he’s gone. Last summer I cleaned my whole house by week two and had to figure out another way to kill the time. This time around I’m more prepared. I’ve gotten really into hiking.”
“Oh. That’ll be good.”
I felt for the woman. Imagining myself in her single-mom running shoes, I grasped for a helpful thing to say in this situation. Maybe, “Good for you! Get that me time!” Hmmm no. How about, “haha. Well I hope your ex gets lice.” Umm definitely no. Or, “my house is dying for a deep clean. Please feel free to stop by anytime!” I decided that coughing was the best method to fill the awkward silence.
I blamed Sarah Jessica Parker for my discomfort. In the film I Don’t Know How She Does It her character contracts head lice from her son and after a brief frame of her sitting in a comfy salon chair reading a magazine the lice magically disappear. Because I’m an idiot, this was the experience I was looking forward to when I showed up at Desperate Lousewives, instead of the intense hair pulling I endured. I had no choice in the matter. As the eight year old’s Mom had pointed out: No salon will cut your hair if you have lice. By the time my scalp was thoroughly lacerated and I was handed back my credit card, the salon’s waiting area looked like an IHOP on Pancake Day. Adult lice can lay eight eggs a day and live up to thirty days on one head. Business was booming.
I couldn’t bear the thought of putting my five year old and two year old through the pain, so I gave them a gentle comb through and took them to Supercuts to have their heads covertly shaved. Sure for the rest of the summer I looked like I was raising two little white supremacists, but it was worth it.
I, however, had to spend every evening for two weeks sat on the floor in front of a mirror, comb and detangler spray in hand, listening to podcasts and hunting for eggs. I was determined not to have to give myself a pixie cut. With each egg I found I got angrier and angrier with Desperate Lousewives. “Ughhhh. What was the point of shelling out almost two-hundred dollars if I’m still finding eggs!” It was disgusting. When I went for my recheck Elizabeth could not believe that I had found so many eggs, apologized profusely, and waved the $30 recheck fee. She gave me her best hard comb through and pronounced me lice free.
I still don’t know where my five year old and I first came across our cohabitants. According to his preschool’s Director, we were the only family to report having lice. I also don’t know just how long James was a host. He never once complained about itching and we only discovered our little friends because of my constant scalp scratching. Apparently some people aren’t allergic to lice saliva! This is also probably why the eight year old and his Mom were unaware he was hosting an entire colony until he went to the salon. Or maybe she just has very poor eyesight.
Determined not to let the lice win, and still reeling from the experience, I started telling everyone about our infestation. “How has your summer been?” a fellow parent would ask me. “We had lice!” I would blurt out and the conversation would flow from there. I would get very excited when I came across fellow survivors as we bonded over our lice induced PTSD. “Oh the amount of laundry!” “Oh my god it took forever to comb out my daughter’s hair with coconut oil.” “For weeks we still felt itchy!”
Months later, I still panic whenever my scalp feels itchy. Last week at an indoor playground I jumped off the sofa I had been resting my head on and quickly tied my hair into the bun. I’m not taking any more chances.
#helpstoplicestigma #hostsarepeopletoo #stopheadtoheadcontactinschools #licesurvivorsunite #licesurvivorsunite