The "L" word

I'm a betting gal. And I'm betting you are thinking about a completely different "L" word than I am....

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Today I took Pea for a haircut. The stylist is a friend of mine, and as she started trimming, she leaned in, looked at me, then nodded towards Pea's head.

"I'm sorry to say this...." she says, lifting Pea's locks...

Yes. My daughter has head lice.
(Its ok, you can shudder. I did.)

Now, where we lived in the States (and growing up, for that matter), there was a definite social stigma to head lice.  My mom never let us keep the tacky stuffed animals we won at the carnival. Carnivals were dirty, after all. We could get lice from those stuffed animals.

As Nadine pinched a critter from her head, she explained, quite simply, that it is just a part of childhood.  (While I'm sure people aren't announcing it to the world,) they are rather matter-of-fact about it.
She said "its an inconvenience. You treat it. Treat it again in a week. It happens" as she pinches a bugger off Pea's scalp.

itch, itch

As she continued trimming, and explaining the process, I couldn't help scratching my head. It was freaking me out. Out of the corner of my eye, I caught the receptionist doing the same. She grinned sheepishly. "I can't help it, either."

Is your head itchy now? Are you scratching your noggin? C'mon, you KNOW you are....

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Before bedtime tonight, I generously coated Pea's hair with the treatment gel, then pulled it back into a ponytail to steep overnight.

To make Pea's hair healthy.

No WAY was I telling either one of them what was going on, or Master "I Don't Have A Filter" and Miss "Public Service Announcement" would be broadcasting it to the world.

So, anyway, being the hypochondriac that I am, of course I gave myself the same treatment.

And about hyperventilated, when, after gooping the stuff in my hair and running a comb through to make sure that every last hair was coated with the greasy gel,  I found one.

In my hair. (Well, actually, on the comb, deaded by the gel, but still.) I yelped. Then I swore.

What. The. Shit. Seriously.
I'm 41 years old, and NOW I get them? Ew. Ew. Ew. EW.

itch, itch, scratch
As if the teen-ager acne I've been hit with isn't bad enough.....

Seriously now. I've adjusted to the spiders in the house. Spiders are our friends, and all that.
I'm dealing with the copious amounts of flies in the house because, obviously,  the UK has not been introduced to the concept of window screens.
I'm dealing (not well) with my kitchen being overrun by ants, despite the fact that I can't even find the food some days, its so well storage-containered up.
I'm dodging bumblebees the size of flying hamsters. (Why ARE they so big this year, and why do they keep following me in the front door?)

But this, this I just can't deal with.

Oh, and I just got off the phone with my husband, currently in Philadelphia.
Who can't stop scratching his head with (I'm sure) an imaginary itch. He has a monkey-buzz cut.

Pea might be next....

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Author's Note: I returned to the salon today to get MY hair cut; my stylist looked closely at my head and declared me nit free. (*cue heavenly choir singing "Hallelujah"*) I must have picked up a couple lost souls from my darlin' daughter's head after carrying her back to the car.

Some gifts, I just don't want.

Does that stop me from itching my head? No.

Or leaning my head waaaaaaay back when she wants a hug? Bad, bad Momma....