Humour: Amanda Blair on the great nit hunt

When things get lousy, when matters come to a head, when it’s down to the nitty-gritties, who can you call? The mitey Amanda Blair, that’s who!

SOME FAMILY PROBLEMS need to be faced head on. But sometimes I prefer facing them via text message.

Hi guys, great to have you and the kids stay on the weekend. Hey, just wanted to let you know you might have taken something of ours home with you by mistake – ooops. HEADLICE. Really sorry if you have. Hope you come again soon. xx : -)

It’s hard to come back from sending this missive knowing the recipients, no matter how close, will immediately ask a series of incredulous questions. “Why didn’t they tell us?”, “Why did they encourage the kids to stay in the same room, in the same bed?”, “They said their kids were itchy because they had a dry scalp?” and then they’ll inevitably ask, “Do we have any nit solution left over from the last time we stayed at their house?” Then they’ll uncontrollably itch their heads ...

Okay, I admit, this scenario has become something of a regular occurrence and I offer no explanation for my inability to detect the creepy crawlies as they crawl off my children’s hair and onto their best friends. On the upside, isn’t it nice to know that my children have learned to share? I will also admit that when I get a de nitive diagnosis of the head louse ( pediculus humanus capitis ) on a family follicle, a certain shiver of excitement makes my own follicles stand on end. For I become the hunter and nothing will stop my reign of terror. That’s right, Nit, go ahead, make my day. Like Bear Grylls on assignment to the depths of the Amazonian jungle, I’m methodical in my preparation for delousing. I gather my required equipment on the kitchen bench – lotions, potions, stolen-fromhotel-room-shower-caps and trusty silver nit comb – and then gather the children under old towels and bright lights. I begin with the saturation and subsequent suffocation of the bloodsucking parasites. I’ve always identi ed with Buddhist teachings that state all creatures have a right to life. But these tiny social inhibitors and slumber party slayers serve no purpose on this earthly plane or after-life, so as I wait the required 10 minutes for the poison to kill everything in its path, I’m sure that Buddha is sitting on a rock somewhere at peace with my decision.

Strand by strand, section by section, I comb, looking for a black dashy-thing with teeny legs (hard to explain, just go with me) sitting close to the scalp. My pleasure zone really hots up if I nd one, still moving, gasping for air, confusingly turning in circles like Miley Cyrus would when looking for the night club exit door. I reach down and pluck it from the shaft and place it on my toilet paper trophy cabinet so we can all admire my catch once nished. Their deaths are brief, my joy unbridled, my kids lice-free. Free to slowly but con dently make their way back out into the world to nd new friends. New friends, yes, because our old ones don’t appear to be answering my calls.

I feel sad when the hunt is over. When I pack my tools away and wash my hands, there is a certain emptiness inside. Perhaps this is my calling, the job I was born to do. Maybe I should turn this idea into a mobile business like Jim’s Mowing. Frustrated and socially stymied parents could call a special 1800-HEADLICE line and out I’d come with a giant papier mâché louse on the top of my cute little car, tools at the ready to comb and kill. It’s given me an itch to scratch and something to think about for the future. I’m sure I could franchise it. My husband is very supportive of this idea, he says I’m really, really, really good at nit picking.

Perhaps this is my calling, the job I was born to do.