As mentioned here before, I now have Thursdays and Fridays to myself, sans offspring. I have got into a routine after enjoying a coffee at The Source post drop-off. On Thursdays I try to catch up on the housework (I spent almost an hour yesterday simply walking around the house returning things to their rightful homes before I could even see huge areas of the floor, getting distracted by facebook and daydreaming about the work I will do on Friday, mostly failing to write it down so that, come Friday I can’t remember any of the brilliant ideas I intended to work on. So on Fridays I try to work – and end up procrastinating by writing a non-earning blog post such as this (sponsorship always welcome though NOT related to this post…).
Last week I had a break from the norm: I had a treatment. ‘Ooh, lovely’, is what you’re thinking now isn’t it? You’re imagining white fluffy towels, unctuous lotions, warm flowing water – am I close? Tick, tick and tick, BUT, add in a vicious metal-toothed comb, the tell-tale pong of tea-tree, and my head upside down in my own (not very clean) shower and suddenly it’s a different picture altogether. Yes, you’ve got it – I self-administered a nit treatment.
I have forced Andrew to check and re-check but all that resulted from his devoted ministrations was a belt around the chops after he dared to step into the danger territory that comes with a mention of greying. (Even my five year old has more sensitivity in this area – while tidying up Lego the other day he told me my hair at the top was lovely and ‘sparkly’ and what woman of a certain age doesn’t want to be described as sparkly?) I have even braved the hairdresser – though not for a while obviously – ready to be discreetly shown out the back door with nary a foil near my poor root-ridden bonce, but no, the lovely Katrina gamely persevered and also found no evidence of blood sucking critters. But still I was not convinced – something was causing the agonising itching.
Most nights, at some point, I wake up beside, not my dear snoring husband, but my angelic-looking youngest son. He creeps through in the wee small hours and snuggles down really really close to me, showing me such love and devotion that his many daily misdemeanours are nightly forgiven. However, it suddenly dawned me that perhaps it was his nightly misdemeanour I should be worrying about, being a lot stealthier, a lot more insidious, and, for a change, utterly innocent.
So last Friday I went for it, bravely gritting my teeth as the comb ripped my hair from my scalp – ‘it will all be worth it’ I told myself. I was almost looking forward to seeing the evidence, to proving my theory correct and showing those who had checked previously wrong (though common sense would suggest that if there was anything – or indeed anyone – to tease-out then getting a full-head of highlights might be the way). I remember the first time I de-loused Sam, the sense of accomplishment was so addictive we sat through a whole Ninjago DVD while I hunted the buggers down and banished them from my precious child. I began with the same gusto last Friday, not allowing myself to become disheartened when the prodigious tugging produced no results. But by the end I had to admit it, all I had succeeded in doing was thinning my hair (helpful perhaps given the damp weather we’re having) and making myself smell like a health food shop by engulfing myself in a fug of tea-tree.
I have since checked all three boys and none has nits (we have not yet ruled out Andrew though!). I should of course have started there, and probably tried changing my shampoo. I’ve now done that and it seems to have done the trick, hallelujah! Sometimes the solution – pun intended – is staring you right in the face.
My apologies if I’ve made you itch! Wishing you all a fun, bug-free weekend.