Post-Traumatic Lice

Disclaimer: I apologize for any psychosomatic itching that occurs upon reading this post.

It’s Monday evening and I’m standing over the sink, a metal comb in my hand, iPad propped on the closed toilet seat as it plays mindless episodes of Love is Blind.

I’ve been here before, many times.

Combing my hair out to check for lice.

You see, I’ve had lice now a confirmed 3 or 4 times, only one of which was during my youth, as a teenager; every other time, I’ve been a teacher.

I don’t have lice now, or at least I don’t think I do, as I comb out the same small inch of hair from a third angle, scrutinizing the comb for any trace of nits or live louse.

Because I know well what they look like.

The first time I had lice I was 14 and had just come back from a youth travel and service bike trip with my camp. 12 of us, boys and girls, biking 30-40 miles a day in Vermont, Massachusetts, and upstate New York. Stopping every few days to settle in at a different campground, completing service projects in the area, then picking up and moving onto the next. Helmets, tents, and lots and lots of hugging and sharing of things, as 14-year-olds tend to do.

I remember the last week or so of the trip, my scalp itched incessantly. I’d crave a scalding hot shower to burn away the itch on my scalp. I’d lower my head back into the stream of water in relief, only for the itch to come back when I’d get on with my day.

At camp, they’d do lice checks at the beginning and end of summer. They found lice on Zoe, but the rest of us were free. Or so we thought.

I came back to New York in late August, scratching, but telling my mom proudly, “I’m lice free, they checked me!” whenever she would question me with an eyebrow raised.

Fast forward to the first week of sophomore year, and my mom had had enough. In my memory, she tackles me to the floor to check my head, and proclaims, “You have a city of lice living on your head!”

So began one of the more traumatic experiences of my life: sitting through painstaking hours of lice and nit removal at the top of our stairs-that-led-to-nowhere (it had the best light, seeing as it was closest to the ceiling) while I tried to make sense of my AP European History textbook; my mom getting lice from me; my dad coming into my room one night, telling me, “If you can’t get rid of this, I’m shaving your head;” and the black licorice-scented treatment that our professional de-louser gave us when my mom finally caved and paid for us to both get treated.

I got very familiar with lice during that experience. After all, I had a whole city living on my head! They migrated to my mom’s head! I remember I could see the nits in my sideburns, for goodness sake!

The second time I got lice was in 2018 as a third-year teacher, around my birthday. I knew the itch, the familiar heat spreading behind my ears. I went to a professional this time to check me and they stated I simply had dandruff. A few nights later, scratching madly, I found my old comb after a night out, scraped it under the nape of my neck and said hello to 3 bugs that fell out into the sink.

(By the way, I’m sorry if you’re itching as you read this; I sure am!)

Mayhem. I cried, bagged everything up that couldn’t be washed, and hauled 4 loads of laundry down to the laundry room. I didn’t trust the professionals, nor anyone else, so I treated and de-loused myself. Luckily, I succeeded, thanks to my perfectionism. I would not have another city moving in.

The third time was three years later, also on my birthday, this time most definitely from a student. It wasn’t as bad, and I treated it quickly.

But every time after that, if I got a hint of an itch, or heard of a student with lice, I didn’t hesitate: I’d treat, comb, and get ahead of it regardless.

I’ve probably done said “preventative treatment” three or four times since then. Which is what leads me to now, standing at the sink, rolling my eyes at this ridiculous reality TV show that still has us all wrapped around its finger (what season is it, anyway? I don’t even like reality TV, but this one I’ll come back to). Two of my students have lice, and I am not taking any chances. So I stand here, combing the same strands one way and another, watching my hair fill the sink, but luckily no bugs.

“No lice. No nits,” I say proudly after an hour of combing. I texted the same to Kim.

Needless to say, I’ll be keeping my hair up for the rest of the year.