What's With Some People?
How cute, how really sweet. Cute as in clever as a fox. Talk about conflicted; the author is upset that she and her daughter have somehow, (through exposure via another child's infected head of hair) contracted with the lesser animules of this world to host them, however grudgingly, for a while. And on the other hand, because this little scenario is one unfortunately visited time and again upon the unwary, evidently not because of a lack of decent hygiene - but just because - one can make light of it.
So all right. There's the admission that the thought the author's itchy-scalped child was just complaining as children are wont to do, endlessly and without reason - and whyever might her child's mother leap to the conclusion her child has nits? So we accept that. It seems outlandish, in a way, that one would immediately assume one's child's scalp has become a playground for lice, coming from a middle-class household with all the hygenic and cleaning amenities in most modern households.
I wonder why it was that I, a grandmother who looked after our granddaughter daily until age ten, often thought of the possibility and the bloody nuisance it might be, and wouldn't it be far, far better to diminish opportunities by ensuring that the child's luxuriant long mane was swept up and out of the way during school hours, and this mother did not. It isn't as though the information is lacking that headlice are a scourge of young children in elementary schools.
But then, this writer for Slate.com, Emily Yoffe, didn't even click in when, as she describes it she suffered "a feeling of my hair being on fire that the flames seemed to burn from the nape of my neck to my ears...I spent all day scratching and, that night, asked my daughter to look at my scalp for a rash. "I don't see a rash, but I think I see things moving", her daughter responded.
Yes, it's supposed to be an offhandedly-amusing piece and it was that, but it was also an irritatingly stupid piece. Once this mother accepted that both she and her daughter had a case of full-blown headlice she purchased over-the-counter medications to eradicate them. A process which I understand to be a long and tedious and often infuriatingly unsuccessful one. Good on her, she got right to it.
And where do you think she began the eradication process? At home perchance? This woman and her child sequestered in their home, desperately attempting to annihilate the uninvited little monsters ravaging their scalps, laying eggs, multiplying and generally living the good life. One cannot but feel great compassion. Wait a minute, save your compassion.
She and her daughter casually dug out the occasional minuscule clawed monster from their tresses while on a family holiday, as guests of a Bed and Breakfast. Here's a little tidbit: "I had noticed a magnifying glass in our hosts' living room. After breakfast, my daughter pulled another creature out of her head and we looked at it through the glass. It was an eighth-of-an-inch-long insect...It was perfectly clear that my daughter and I were hosts." At a Bed and Breakfast, these two were kindly hosting a multitude of tiny bloodsuckers.
"Having lice is bad enough", she wrote "but what is the etiquette of travelling while infested?" Hey! I've got my hand up! Ask me, ask me! The etiquette at this juncture is to thank your unwitting hosts and explain that an emergency situation has arisen and you have been called away. You must perforce return home to attend to that selfsame emergency. Failing that, you can choose to admit to the host and hostess of the Bed and Breakfast that you have brought (unwittingly, admittedly) a tiny scourge into their premises, and hope they don't mind.
But oh no, not this little family, including the co-conspirator husband/father. For one reads further:
How do you think you'd react being seated at an Inn dining room and spotting a louse, expired or otherwise, on the table linen? Retch time.
So all right. There's the admission that the thought the author's itchy-scalped child was just complaining as children are wont to do, endlessly and without reason - and whyever might her child's mother leap to the conclusion her child has nits? So we accept that. It seems outlandish, in a way, that one would immediately assume one's child's scalp has become a playground for lice, coming from a middle-class household with all the hygenic and cleaning amenities in most modern households.
I wonder why it was that I, a grandmother who looked after our granddaughter daily until age ten, often thought of the possibility and the bloody nuisance it might be, and wouldn't it be far, far better to diminish opportunities by ensuring that the child's luxuriant long mane was swept up and out of the way during school hours, and this mother did not. It isn't as though the information is lacking that headlice are a scourge of young children in elementary schools.
But then, this writer for Slate.com, Emily Yoffe, didn't even click in when, as she describes it she suffered "a feeling of my hair being on fire that the flames seemed to burn from the nape of my neck to my ears...I spent all day scratching and, that night, asked my daughter to look at my scalp for a rash. "I don't see a rash, but I think I see things moving", her daughter responded.
Yes, it's supposed to be an offhandedly-amusing piece and it was that, but it was also an irritatingly stupid piece. Once this mother accepted that both she and her daughter had a case of full-blown headlice she purchased over-the-counter medications to eradicate them. A process which I understand to be a long and tedious and often infuriatingly unsuccessful one. Good on her, she got right to it.
And where do you think she began the eradication process? At home perchance? This woman and her child sequestered in their home, desperately attempting to annihilate the uninvited little monsters ravaging their scalps, laying eggs, multiplying and generally living the good life. One cannot but feel great compassion. Wait a minute, save your compassion.
She and her daughter casually dug out the occasional minuscule clawed monster from their tresses while on a family holiday, as guests of a Bed and Breakfast. Here's a little tidbit: "I had noticed a magnifying glass in our hosts' living room. After breakfast, my daughter pulled another creature out of her head and we looked at it through the glass. It was an eighth-of-an-inch-long insect...It was perfectly clear that my daughter and I were hosts." At a Bed and Breakfast, these two were kindly hosting a multitude of tiny bloodsuckers.
"Having lice is bad enough", she wrote "but what is the etiquette of travelling while infested?" Hey! I've got my hand up! Ask me, ask me! The etiquette at this juncture is to thank your unwitting hosts and explain that an emergency situation has arisen and you have been called away. You must perforce return home to attend to that selfsame emergency. Failing that, you can choose to admit to the host and hostess of the Bed and Breakfast that you have brought (unwittingly, admittedly) a tiny scourge into their premises, and hope they don't mind.
But oh no, not this little family, including the co-conspirator husband/father. For one reads further:
"Our family, boxes of Nix cream rinse hidden in our suitcases, arrived at our next destination - a lovely inn. It turns out when your head's been colonized for more than a month, your scalp resembles a lice version of New Year's Eve in Times Square. After my daughter and I treated ourselves with insecticide and combed out cascades of lice for two hours we all went to dinner in the dining room. "At one point, I tossed my hair and a permethrin-drugged louse fell out and staggered on the white tablecloth."This doughty pair of travellers had, by the author's admission, a month's worth of headlice yet they embarked on this family vacation, exposing other people to the contamination which they were so enthusiastically attempting to shed. I'd like to know the names of the B&B and the Inn they stayed at. The better to avoid them myself.
How do you think you'd react being seated at an Inn dining room and spotting a louse, expired or otherwise, on the table linen? Retch time.
Labels: Peculiarities
posted by Pieface @ 4:53 PM
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