It started innocently enough. A casual scratch here, a little scratch there. Nothing alarming, right? But then, it became a constant. An itch I couldn’t ignore. A maddening, relentless scratching. Behind my ears, at the nape of my neck, on the crown of my head. I even found myself scratching in front of the dairy section at the supermarket while contemplating which yogurt to buy. A true sign of desperation.

Turns out, I had reason to scratch—I had lice.

Yes, you read that right. I had lice. At 37. But here’s the thing: I didn’t catch them alone. My generous daughter, Miss J., had brought them into our home, as though they were an exotic gift from a faraway land. I mean, we had everything else—why not add lice to the collection? I informed the school, kept Miss J. home for a lice-detox day, and called all the friends we’d seen in the past week. For some of them, the announcement came too late—surprise, they already had them too. I wasn’t the only one on this uninvited parasite train.

At the school, as I explained the situation, a brief moment of self-doubt hit me. I couldn’t help but think, “They probably all think I imported these lice from Romania. I mean, who brings lice into a foreign country?” But honestly, I didn’t care. I had lice to battle.

Last night, when I first saw those little critters practicing acrobatics on my daughter’s hair, I became hypnotized. So much so that Miss J. felt compelled to provide her own explanation:
“Mom, I think they’re little bugs from trees, and they fell in my hair like the leaves do in autumn!”

I had to smile. It was the most logical explanation in her little world. Of course, lice fall like leaves in autumn. Why hadn’t I thought of that?

Off to the pharmacy I went. Armed with the mission to kill those lice in their tracks, I had heard rumors of magical lotions that could suffocate them in no time. For once, I was eager—no, excited—to kill something. (Okay, maybe not the first time I’ve been excited to kill something.) I scoured every shelf in search of this miracle potion. Creams, shampoos, body lotions, painkillers—but where is the lice-killing section?!

After an exasperating search, I finally spotted it. With two people ahead of me in line, I waited patiently, as if I wasn’t about to buy the most mortifying thing imaginable.

“Do you have any lotion or shampoo for lice?” I asked, my voice just a little too loud. I paused and added defensively, “My daughter got lice at school, you know.”

Because, of course, I had to clarify. I couldn’t just be the woman buying lice shampoo. No, no—I don’t have lice, just my daughter. Never me. Never ever.

But oh, the embarrassment. I could feel my cheeks turning red, trying to hide the stupid grin threatening to spread across my face. How ridiculous. Lice at 37.

Then, a flood of memories came rushing back from my childhood—those painful days when I found out I had lice during a school check. I was mortified beyond belief. All I wanted was for the world to swallow me whole, to make the horror disappear. That was the most shame I’d ever felt in my life—well, except for the time I fell from a balcony (on the ground floor, mind you) while trying to impress the cute boy upstairs. I was holding onto the clothesline, and it snapped. Thud. That was the tragic end to my pre-teen love affair. But I digress.

After soaking my daughter’s hair in the suffocating lice lotion, I combed through it with the infamous lice comb. You know, the one with the teeth spaced so tightly together you could swear it’s designed by medieval torture specialists. We combed and combed, and I swear, we pulled out a third of her hair. Lice were falling like crazy, and let me tell you—if you’ve never studied them under a magnifying glass, you should. They’re vile. Revolting. And they make you lose your appetite for three days.

The box promised they’d be suffocated in an hour, including the eggs, grandparents, cousins, neighbors… You name it. Seven hours later, I’m still scratching.

Today, in a panic, I washed everything—towels, bed sheets, clothes, even the hairbrushes. I cranked the washer up to 90°C, just to be sure. If they didn’t suffocate, at least they’d be boiled alive.

Now Miss J. is asleep, her hair wrapped in curlers. I’m not sure if she’s celebrating her victory over the lice or trying to impress any stragglers who may still be hanging around. Either way, the battle is won… for now.

And so, life continues here in the Netherlands. Me? I’m still scratching. But I have hope. Hope that one day—soon—I’ll be lice-free and able to sleep without imagining those tiny little acrobats doing pirouettes in my hair.

Moral of the story: Sometimes, life throws you lice. And when it does, you just have to laugh (while itching like crazy).