Sky rockets in flight

Afternoon delight.

Or so we thought it would be when we packed up the family for a day away three weeks ago.

It was to be an afternoon and evening spent in the company of distant relatives... aunts, uncles, and cousins we see only sporadically, perhaps no more than once or twice a year.

For the most part, the afternoon proceeded as planned, with the kids enjoying the playground despite the drizzly day, and the adults doing what they tend to do on such occasions—converging around the food and drink to catch up on the comings-and-goings of one-and-all.

Mid-way through the day, an aunt invited us over for dinner—nothing fancy she would say, but just enough to fill us up before packing up the kids for the three-hour drive home.

We accepted, and were nearly on our way, when just then our day took an unexpected turn for the worse.

The day prior, our Daycare Provider let it be known to Hot Wife that we should keep an eye on our brood, since five or six of our kids’ playing partners had come down with something we most definitely would want to avoid.

Hard to do on that very day, since the kids were going directly from Daycare to The Matriarch’s for a quick overnight stay.

It wasn’t until late in the day on Saturday that we thought to follow-up on the previous day’s declaration that it would be wise to watch our children for the tell-tale signs of what was about to unfold.

And that’s what we did when Hot Wife tapped the Mother-of-Many—whose job as a teacher affords her much experience in the area—to check our children for lice.

Head lice.

Check that.

Motherfu**ing head lice.

Because from the moment it was discovered that The Daughter Formerly Known as The Latest Addition was hosting the dastardly devils, those little mofos consumed our every thought and action.

Every. Last. One.

The discovery of bugs in our daughter’s hair immediately put us in an odd predicament.

What to do about our dinner invitation?

Neither Hot Wife nor I would have begrudged my aunt and uncle for suddenly rescinding the invitation and proclaiming ‘no room at the Inn’.

Credit to them, they barely let it show that we were quite obviously persona non grata considering the infestation brewing in The DFKATLA’s beautiful blond locks.

Still, we quickly cancelled on them to avoid any of the awkwardness, then packed up the kids to go home and deal with it.

After a three-hour drive spent scratching our own scalps—convinced that we too were carrying—and a stop at the drugstore for some anti-lice treatment, we finally rolled in at 9 p.m. with three sleeping children in tow.

Normally they would have gone straight to bed, but not that night.

That night, linens had to be changed, and the children scrubbed clean, with The DFKATLA undergoing the most serious of the three cleanings followed by a careful comb-through shortly thereafter.

Want to experience the pleasure of petulance at its best?

Try pulling lice from a two-year old’s head three-and-a-half hours after she normally goes to bed.

Shriek meets scream meets total disregard for the words ‘don’t move’.

Finally, we got our insect-riddled daughter seemingly insect-free, and crawled into bed near midnight after Hot Wife, too, treated her hair just to be safe.

Three hours later, she still hadn’t slept a wink, choosing instead to scratch her head silly, more convinced now than earlier that she had head lice too.

I wasn’t worried.

I wasn’t worried the next day, when we spent about eight hours doing laundry and cleaning the house.

I wasn’t worried three days later, when not a sign of lice could be found on our baby girl, or anyone else in our household.

I wasn’t worried five days later when Hot Wife still was scratching, and again I checked her hair and found nothing.

I wasn’t even worried when Hot Wife did the same with me, just to be sure.

But then I remembered that a few days prior to finding the lice on The DFKATLA, I snuggled up to her in bed just as she was falling asleep.

I never do that, to avoid making it a habit.

Of course, on the one occasion that I did indulge my daughter and let her fall asleep against me, there was possibly a mother louse on the pillow birthing a small infantry of babies that would later attack with a vengeance.

Not The Eldest.

Not The Final Addition.

Not Hot Wife.

Only The Daughter Formerly Known as The Latest Addition.

And me.

That’s right.

Moments after Hot Wife began scouring my head for the scourge that is lice, she found a couple of nits.

Nothing creepy-crawling across my scalp, thankfully.

But enough to foist upon me an easy resolution.

The next day I was off to the barber to have my mane sheered down to the wood, but not before wondering aloud about the proper etiquette when it comes to getting a hair cut when lice are in the early stages of building a community on your head.

Is one supposed to fess up first, or simply zip it and hope nothing else comes of it?

I chose to fess up, mostly because I know my barber well.

As she motioned for me to take a seat, I had no choice but to spill the beans. So I did, but quickly, before anyone else could enter and overhear the conversation, which went a little something like this:

Me: Umm, I have a small issue. My daughter gave me lice.
Barber, perplexed: Oh.
Me: I know.
Barber: Well, don't you have clippers at home.
Me, internally: Of course I do. I just wanted to swing by here first and let you know, since secrets are always safe at the barber shop!
Me, externally: No, I don't have clippers.
Barber: Well, call me in a couple of hours. If there is nobody here, you can come back and I'll make sure you're my last client of the day. That way, I can sterilize everything when I'm done.
Me: O.k. thanks.

Two hours later, I was back, appreciative that I was not treated like a leper and sent on my way.

And although my barber broke out the near-broken clippers to shave my head, the ones that don't quite pull the hair out but almost do, I was still thankful that she took me in and helped to resolve my problem.

So gone is the hair that I had spent nearly 10 months growing, and back is the military crew cut that I sported as a youngster.

On the bright side, I like it.

On the brighter side, there ain't no lice on us.