Pick, pick, pick

If God knows how many hairs on our heads, surely he knows how many hairs I pulled off my daughter's yesterday, because I lost count after the first several dozen. All the websites instruct you to comb through wet, conditioned hair to allow the nits (a.k.a. louse eggs) to slide off BUT THEY LIE. These things do not slide off and after listening to Elle shriek a few times and finally flat out cry, we switched to the less painful removal process of yanking each affected hair out by the roots. She fell asleep in my lap, poor infested little darling.

I planned to keep her home again today to do a second round, but was assured by more than one parent that it is not worth having her miss school since the other kids are loaded as well, you are not protecting them nor protecting her, so after washing out the conditioner that she slept in under a shower cap to smother any live critters with citronella soap and coating her again with more conditioner mixed with a few drops of Tea Tree Oil, I pulled her hair tightly into two pigtails, ran through the cautions about hugging, sharing hats and hairbrushes, instructed her to politely and discreetly disobey her teacher's instructions to "lie like logs" on the carpeted floor at storytime, and sent her off.

Now it's Grice's turn.

Sarabelle and I have clean heads and we plan on keeping it that way. I purchased a bottle of disinfectant touted by the manufacturers as being the appointed producer of antiseptics, air fresheners, polishes, cleaners, and laundry products for Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth II to sanitize all hair brushes and combs. The awful, ultra clean sickroom smell of the stuff fills our house and I wonder if this is what her royal highness smells like up close.

The next few weeks will entail a routine of combing Tea Tree-conditioned hair at least twice weekly to break the cycle and lots of laundry, although burning all garments and bedding in a large bonfire still holds major appeal, and I'll bet if we were to dance naked around the fire all the neighbors would keep their buggy little kids away.

Jorge sends his sympathies but we all agree it is much better that our dear, obsessive compulsive cleaner is on the other side of the planet.


Pleasant it is, when over a great sea the winds trouble the waters, to gaze from shore upon another's great tribulation: not because any man's troubles are a delectable joy, but because to perceive what ills you are free from yourself is pleasant.

-- Lucretius