How to Bond Over Head Lice Removal

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I have even come to enjoy nitpicking. My daughter and I call it primate time, as we huddle together like mountain gorillas on the deck, a long-haired head resting on my knee. We gather the requisite utensils: a small water-filled bowl (for nits and lice), a tiny-toothed comb, a magnifying glass, a few treats (these sessions easily take an hour). I tell her she has a little zoo on top of her head. I talk about nitwits and nitpickers, and I don't correct her when she adds knitting needles to our word game.

Before long, her resentment at having to sit still dissolves into relaxation, and she starts talking. She relates confusing things she has experienced and unburdens herself of hurts she has collected. She does not expect insightful comments from me, just my attention. Eventually, of course, she gets impatient. And so do I. But we cannot take leave of each other until the job is finished, so we persevere in this closeness.

In fairy tales, combing hair is a metaphor for setting things straight. Delousing my daughters gives me an opportunity to smooth the wrinkles in their lives.

When we have finished, I dump the nit-filled water down the drain, squelching my irrational fear that the eggs will somehow hatch in the drainpipe and gang up on us. She scampers off. And as I begin the huge task of delousing the house, it occurs to me that head lice might be tiny messengers from the great spirit, who chuckles at our arrogant assumption that nature can be tamed and sterilized. The louse will always prevail. And that is not, I have decided, lousy news after all.

From Mothering (Jan./Feb. 1999). Subscriptions: $18.95/yr. (6 issues) from Box 1690, Santa Fe, NM 87504. 

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