I think I’ve got nits. My heads been itching for days. Okay so it might be because I haven’t washed it in over a week, I suspect that might be the case actually. It is now sticking to my head like a wetsuit helmet. But it still could be nits.
And I’ve had a phobia of nits ever since they used to show those magnified images at school. I mean look at them – just how many legs and protrusions and things does a nit need? And then I got them and I was terrified. I remember vividly standing in front of the mirror, hair just washed, with armies of nits escaping from my newly clean hair and scampering for their tiny nit lives down my forehead. I remember the hot itchiness behind my ears. I remember the evil metal comb with its twisted spikes. And I definitely don’t want them on my person again.
Even the words we use to describe the situation are horrible. Infected. Eggs. Hatched. Bloodsucker. Infestation.
It’d be marginally better if the relationship was even a little symbiotic. A bit of give and take between me and the nits. I’ll scratch my head and make you some fresh blood, if you run your little scampery legs throuh my hair like an insect detangler. But no, it’s all about the nit. Sucking on your blood like a folicular vampire and giving you back nothing but an itchy scalp and extra parental duties.
Extra parental duties because if I’ve got them, Big Milk is bound to have them too. So that’ll be a day off school and no time
to put up my feet for the cleaning while we spend the day locking heads (okay maybe not literally, with all that jumping) around a bottle of Quit Nit.
Maybe I just won’t check their heads until tonight.