During the summer before I turned nine (I’m an August baby), my little sister and I somehow managed to get lice. It still, to this day, makes my head itch terribly just thinking about it.
Lauren and I were probably playing Barbies or with our gigantic town of various action figures when we noticed a teensy black bug crawling around in our hideaway book. (You know, one of those hollow books you can hide things in?) We bounced down the stairs to wherever Mom was at the moment (probably in the living room watching General Hospital).
“Look Mommy,” we said, holding out the book to her. “What is it?”
I think my mother had a heart attack.
Luckily, my mom has always been calm and composed, and she recovered pretty quickly. She checked our heads and, sure enough, it was lice.
My sister and I were very close as little kids (and still are). At the time, we didn’t hang out with other kids outside of school. Since it was the middle of summer, we hadn’t come into contact with other kids aside from our cousins (who were lice-free). Yet somehow we had managed to both come down with the little buggers.
Mom immediately went out and bought the lice rinses, shampooing and combing the stuff through our long, shiny hair. I hated the scent of it, and I hated stooping over the sink as she rinsed it out. When we were both done, however, we seemed to be cured.
Of course, we weren’t. We did the treatment several more times over the next couple of weeks. Mom and Dad bombed the whole house, and soaked our stuffed animals in the tub with some stuff that was supposed to kill any eggs nested in our stuffed friends. All of our clothing and sheets were washed with scalding hot water, yet we still couldn’t get rid of the lice.
Finally, some well-meaning person told my mom to soak our heads with Vaseline. I can still remember Mom and Dad getting ready for the project. Dad bought some Ajax, which was the only thing that would cut through to wash the Vaseline out once we were coated. Lauren and I sat in chairs as Mom and Dad worked Vaseline into our hair and put plastic shower caps and plastic bags over our heads to keep it from dripping onto anything. I’m not sure how long we had to let it set in, but eventually it was time to wash it out. To this day, I can’t look at a bottle of Ajax and not remember my parents soaping up my hair over and over again, trying to get all of the Vaseline out. Unfortunately, my and Lauren’s hair was so long that it just wasn’t happening.
“We’re going to have to cut it,” said one of my parents. (I’ve honestly blocked out who.)
“NO!” Lauren and I screamed.
“We don’t have a choice,” Mom said. And then she took out the scissors from the drawer — the same scissors Lauren had once used to give her Barbie a lopsided haircut — and cut our hair as we cried and begged her not to.
Once our hair was shorter (and by shorter I mean boy short), the Vaseline washed out without a problem. And the lice? Were gone, never to come back. But I had one hell of a horrible haircut, worse than the haircut Britt recently gave her daughter Emma — I promise!! (I refuse to post pictures, because it truly was that bad.)
For the longest time after that, I refused to cut my hair. It grew all the way down to my hips before, at thirteen, I decided to cut it. Now I could care less; I cut it all the time! But for some reason, when I was a kid, my hair seemed to be my sole identity.
Do you have a bad or funny haircut story? Comment here with your best (or worst), and let’s show Britt that she hasn’t totally traumatized her kid!
