As I sit down to write my head is tingling, not with a creative idea or caffeine buzz, but with a concoction of naturally killing oils I applied to kill the lice my children brought home from school. My hair, heavy with slathered coconut oil to smother the tiny beasts, will be wrapped in a towel, beehive-syle, for the next hour. To the coconut oil, I added drops of rosemary oil, eucalyptus oil, peppermint oil, and tea tree oil from my natural arsenal, so it actually smells pretty good, albeit so strong my eyes are tearing.
It all started on Saturday, when at my daughter's friends skating party, I noticed my daugthter scratching her head relentlessly as she twirled and sailed across the shiny floor, rocking her hips to the beat of songs I'd never heard before. I bet she has a tick, is what I thought, and I searched her head as soon as we got to the car. Being an Ozark-dweller for a decade, I can spot and remove a tick in two seconds, and I was blind to the tiny vermin that had established themselves in the hair of my middle child. The next day I looked again, and in broad daylight I saw them--parasitic insects--and lots of them in various stages of development.
I broke the news to my daughter, who, at six still considers little things to be a big deal, and this certainly was, a little thing (a little thing with legs and mouth parts). In a lilty voice that belied my true feelings I said, "first we are going to give you a little hair trim, then we're going to get the bugs out." This child, who I adore and identify with so strongly, is loud and reactive, and doesn't like her hair touched. Doesn't like it washed, brushed, cut, or fixed in any way. Only recently she allows me to wash it without screaming at the top of her lungs, a washcloth held tight as a bandage over her eyes while I later and rinse. Two haircuts back, she sobbed through the whole thing, threatened bodily harm on the sylist, and had to be carried out as she wailed, "I want my hair to die!" I didn't have the heart to tell her it was already dead.
So the crying began, moaning and miserable, instead of screaming and physical, so I was in good shape. Her thick golden brown hair was long overdue for a cut (can you blame me?) and hung below the shoulders. I quickly took it to chin length, sawing through the thickest parts like a butcher through gristle, and then swept the infested locks over the edge of the porch into our wild weed patch below. "Maybe the birds will use my hair for a nest," she offered sadly.
Step two was applying the smelly goo and setting the timer for the allotted time, and distracting her as she began to complain that her head was on fire. Then, onto washing, with an accompaniment of crying, as I lathered and rinsed three times. A final rinse of vinegar was poured through her now bobbed tresses to "release the glue that holds the eggs to the hair shaft."
The combing, with a comb so finely toothed I could barely see between them, ended up being her least favorite part, but the tiny comb did its job, and dead-looking lice eggs wedged in the teeth which had to be periodically rinsed and flossed with dental tape. After two hours, I released her with strict orders not to do headstands on the couch or build forts made of blankets until further notice.
About the time Middle Child is calming down, my oldest daughter arrives home from her sleepover (not good for the hosting family) and upon perusal of her hair, I break the news to her and begin the whole process again. She is almost ten and has very long thick hair, and, unike her sister, she cares about her hair and so authorized only a two-inch trim, and lamented at the pile of hair at her feet. Also unlike her sister, she cooperated and hardly complained, (minding the idea of bugs in her hair much more than the process of eliminating them, just the opposite of her sister as well.) People are going to find out was her concern.
Then commenced the laundry. Seven loads that day, as all four beds were stripped, all clothes gathered, jackets taken from their hooks by the door, and towels put through. Stuffed animals, unwashable pillows, and couch cushions were bagged to sit in plastic for three days, so when the eggs hatch, the newborns will be starved to death.
My husband took advantage of a teachable moment and showed everyone a mature louse and egg thereof under the microscope. The minature louse looked like a hairy beast at 40x magnification. "See the fluid circulating through its body? That's your blood, " he told Middle Child. "Cool. I was their habitat and their food, " she said, truly sounding honored now.
My youngest, at three, didn't want to be left out, and although I could find no sign of bugs in her very fine hair, we did a treatment and wash on her too. Today, after sending the kids to school (nit-free I hope) I gave myself a treatment, stripped all the beds for washing again (as I will everyday for the next ten days!), and vacuumed the floors, couch, and chairs. In one week any survived eggs with hatch and I have to do the entire process over again on everyone. I reported it to the school, called friends we recently played with, will alert the soccer team kids, and now, I have to go prepare my vinegar rinse, as my hour is up.