Lousy 50s

Head's been itching for three days. Driving me crazy, stark raving looneytunes insanely bonkers.

And of course I'm thinking, "head lice."

Don't be a dope, I tell myself. Women in their 50s do not get head lice. But of course they do. Why not? What do the lice care? A head's a head to a louse. I really doubt that lice find the sign of grey roots a turn-off. Yet somehow it seems like the only adults I know who've had head lice contracted it from their grade-school-aged children. But, really, what do I know? Maybe retirement homes are teeming with head lice and they're just not talking about it. I mean, why would they? It's not like the home head nurse can call you up and tell you to pick up your elderly father, douse his head with chemicals, search his hair with a nit comb, and keep him from contact with other elderly folks for the next 48 hours. Or maybe she can. What do I know?

All I know is my head really really itches and the last time it felt this way was many many years ago when Owen had a bad case of head lice that we didn't detect for ages because his hair was so thick, and by the time we did detect it, the lice had colonized me and Hugh as well. That was our first encounter with the dreaded louse. Many more were to come, especially once we moved to England. The Manchester Health Authority, concerned by the health risks posed by overuse of head lice-eradicating shampoos, had banned their sale and instead mounted a massive campaign in schools and community centers to teach parents to nit-comb their kids' hair every night. Every time I picked up or dropped off a child I had to run the gauntlet of posters featuring giant-sized lice and the cheery slogan, "All It Takes Is A Comb!" Right. And in the event of nuclear war, just make sure you've got a lot of duct tape and all will be well.

The campaign, needless to say, was a tremendous failure. All It Takes, actually, is one parent who's too sick//busy/ overwhelmed/ distracted/ drunk/ stoned/ ignorant /depressed, and one non-nitcombed kid, and you rapidly have yourself a whole lotta lice. By our third year in the city, the Health Authority had admitted defeat and lice-killing shampoos were back in the chemists' (aka drugstores). Which put an end to my short but successful career as a Nit-Rid shampoo smuggler (trading on my connections back in the U.S. where of course it's one's God-given right as a Free American to pour lethal brain-destroying chemicals on one's offspring as often as one wants to).

I think I finally threw out our massive collection of nit combs a few years ago and I remember I actually felt a wee bit nostalgic as I did so. The thing is, while the lice were disgusting and my throat still constricts just thinking about the horrid smell of that shampoo, the nitcombing routine wasn't all that bad. I'd get 20 or even 30 minutes with each boy, sitting on my lap, as I went through his hair, strand by strand. That closeness, that physical expression of our relationship, was already so rare by the time the boys were only 7 or 8 so, weirdly, I actually didn't mind our nit-picking sessions. And since, by the time I threw away those combs, the boys were well into their teens and had prohibited all physical contact except in cases of extreme emergency, I don't think the nostalgia was completely mad.

And now I have no nit comb. My head itches. I'm in my 50s. And I'm lousy.