At least once a year an article appears somewhere about head lice. The latest I saw said, “You’ll need an insecticide,” but enough lice in the U.S. have evolved resistance to certain over-the-counter drugs that prescription drugs may be needed. Some insurance companies refuse to pay for the more expensive drugs until over-the-counter ones have not worked.
When I was in second grade the above would have sounded like science fiction. Why would doctors be involved? Why drugs? Insurance companies? How complicated could an itch be? Enough to make you scratch your head for an answer. No, thinking about it is enough to set you scratching.
You might guess that in second grade I had that itch. I was so ashamed — the word “embarrassed” is not strong enough — that I never mentioned it to anyone till I was over 20. Our teacher sometimes had us all bow our heads on our desks while she inspected them. One time a note went home with me and I would return to school only when my head and hair were clear, uninhabited.
Ina, my mother, did not blame me. We figured we knew who had brought the visitors to school; outer garments were hung on hooks outside the classroom door, so from one jacket to another required not even a jump. So Ina simply made a phone call and, after supper, began to rid me of “them.” She knew how to use the kerosene — always available at home for starting fires and cleaning paintbrushes — and then the fine comb; a baby’s comb, actually.
My hair was shoulder-length and cutting it would have made things easier, but Ina would not force that. I suffered with some pulling, but Ina was the martyr. She was pregnant with my youngest sibling, OB Jr., prone to nausea, and kerosene was a trigger. A few sessions and I was back in school.
The one desk in front of me belonged to George, my boyfriend that year. (It was serious: He once wrote me a note asking me to go to the movies. When I checked at home, Porter offered to take me along to pick George up in the car, then to the movies. We stopped afterward for ice cream cones and then he took us to drop George off.}
His sister sat in the next row over, way back. As we stood for the flag salute and prayer, I was sure I heard her say to him, “She’s got ‘em.” This bothered me forever after and when I told a friend years later, she asked if I wanted her to ask the sister. Sure. She reported back that the sister said she had never said anything like that.
Did she even know that I “had ‘em”? I will never know.
Byrna Porter Weir was born and grew up in Houlton, where her parents were portrait photographers. She now lives in Rochester, N.Y.
