My Favourite Plague

My scalp was itching the other day, so I pulled the nit comb out of its bathroom drawer, slathered my hair in conditioner, and had a good trawl. Nothing live, just sand, from a recent beach volleyball experience. Tant pis, I thought.

Yes, that's right. Shocking, but true: I have a sneaking fondness for lice. My view could not possibly be more unpopular. On the occasions when I've voiced my lack of disgust at the critters' existence, you would have thought that I'd expressed admiration for the Marquis de Sade or for the killers of baby harp seals. But quite honestly, they (lice, not harp seals) have done me, and my family, more good than ill. Here in my new home, Toronto, that confession makes me a pariah or at least a totally lone voice. It's pretty much the attitude across North America, it seems. Here there are whole companies dedicated to louse eradication, at the cost of hundreds of dollars. I know plenty of families who have hired their services.

But really, think about it: what damage do lice cause? They itch (not as much as mosquito bites, though). They don't make you sick, they are not vectors for microbes that make you sick, and they don't stink. If I had to choose a plague, lice would be it.

My children have largely outgrown the age of nits. Now galloping into the teen and preteen years, they don't sit huddled in the sandbox or clustered over dolls' houses, their tousled tresses pressed against their friends'. But in those preschool and primary years, while living in the temperate climes of Sussex, we had our fair share of infestations. (In the north of England, we were told, the winter temperatures dropped enough to kill off the stock and keep the numbers in check. In the south, the pests are endemic, or thriving, depending on your point of view.) The middle child in particular was a magnet for them, the population in his scalp achieving numbers I dare not share in print. He was proud of his livestock! We even named one 'Bob', and for some time when said child was about 7 or 8 years old, we could always find Bob lurking within a month or two. Once, during a lengthy spell of unoccupied hair, Bob even sent a postcard to us, evidently from the north of England, describing the sights of the Peak District.

We didn't ignore these infestations: far from it. In a way, we relished them. Taking the boy children to the barber, I might find myself called hither for a quiet word in my shell-like: 'he has a few nits. Just wanted to let you know.' The haircut would continue, scissors cleansed afterward and clippings swept up and ejected, just as would happen with any customer, lollipop chosen from the jar, and off we'd go. Or girl child's preschool teacher, an eagle-eyed (American) spotter, would alert me to the need for a clear-out. (Eventually, I learned to notice them myself.) That night I would perch on the edge of the bathtub, combing through the children's hair, one after the other.

It was lovely. Time-consuming, yes, but I grew to cherish that enforced closeness, that bubble in space and time empty of television, computers, the written word, telephones, games, even of cooking or other household chores. Eventually I improvised a more comfortable seat, and we would begin, becoming absorbed in our task, combing, talking, counting the little buggers (again, I'm not telling), and finally, rinsing. We learned about the life-cycle of the louse, and knew that in four days' time, we needed to repeat the procedure. We never pursued every last little one; that, I recognised early on, was impossible and unnecessary and painful. We aimed for control, not eradication; at about the time patience ended, so did the operation. Over a period of a couple of weeks, with about three rounds of combings, the scalp was clear. For a while. In a couple of months, the cycle would repeat. And our chats, our jokes, our funny songs, would revive and evolve.

Not, I hasten to add, was nit-combing the only time or even the best time I spent with my children at those ages. We snuggled in bed, read stories, watched movies, had picnics, played in the park, walked, drove in the car, rode on trains. (Still do.) But it was certainly a bracketed, focused, intensely one-on-one refreshment between mother and child. I wouldn't have missed it for the world.

So, Robert Burns, I'm with you and your ode, 'To a Louse.' Praise the good lord for all her creations, lice included.


18 January 2016: news flash! Thanks to entomologist Dr. Richard Pollack, instructor at the Harvard School of Public Health and senior environmental public health officer for Harvard University (http://www.hsph.harvard.edu/richard-pollack/), I have scientific, as well as poetic, support for my heretical position. See Dr. Pollack's site on head lice management https://identify.us.com/idmybug/head-lice/index.html

Displaced person

It's been an emotional trip. We've traversed the Atlantic yet again. When I entered the UK the immigration agent looked at my passport and was able to detect that I'd had a permanent resident's visa previously. 'Are you sure you want me to do this?' she asked, her stamp poised over my passport. 'Once I stamp it, the resident's visa is invalidated.' What a question. What a choice. What could I do? It's done already. I'm a visitor now. A tourist. A transatlantic outcast.

We've had a tremendously lovely time, all told. The kids immediately bonded with their old friends, in Brighton and in Durham. We enjoyed numerous joyful reunions followed all too soon by tearful farewells. People in Brighton seemed surprised to see us. 'What are you doing here?' many asked. As if we'd leave and never return! But I guess that's what some do: they move on. I don't feel that way, but I realise that unlike Durham, where we lay claim to some form of rootedness (it's where we met, where we lived when we married, where we had our children), we might be seen merely to have passed through Sussex. Yet our six years there marked me, with irreplaceable friends and essential memories. It's the first place I ever moved with the actual intention of spending my life there. It proved me wrong and taught me bittersweet lessons about the illusion of permanence. It's been a bittersweet journey all through, this voyage home. Because I do feel at home in Brighton. And in Durham. And in California. And, also, in Toronto. I'm not so much displaced as over-placed. Or perhaps misplaced. I must reflect.