Julie Jay: Head lice or an extra-marital affair? I know which one I would pick

On the day my husband phoned me to tell me he had spotted something moving on one of our children's scalps, I would have been much less upset if he told me he had met someone else

Just the thought of those small comb teeth ignites the PTSD of everyone of a certain generation: when their head was thrown over the sink by their panicked parent. Picture: iStock 

It feels like only yesterday my husband rang me with the news that sends a shiver down every parent’s spine: no, not that our child had chosen to follow their dream and pursue magic professionally, even worse than that — something had been spotted moving on one of our children’s scalps. This happened nearly a year ago now, but the terror still feels fresh

Immediately, my mind went into panic mode. Images of special shampoos, detangling, and scalp scrubbing flashed before me. No doubt even the sight of the tiny comb has us all feeling utterly triggered. 

Just the thought of those small comb teeth ignites the PTSD of everyone of a certain generation: when their head was thrown over the sink by their panicked parent of an afternoon (their mother, let’s face it, because it was the ’80s and working outside the home was still punishment with life imprisonment or a hefty fine).

I will never forget the shame that rose in my throat as I made my way back to Dingle, navigating the windy road between Annascaul village and my childminder, cursing myself for having ignored the signs: the head-scratching, the constant head-scratching. How had I not cottoned on to what had been the cause?

The truth is, the head-scratching had concerned me, but having not encountered head lice since my own childhood, I had brushed my children’s hair after washing and not been fully sure what I was actually looking for. 

In my ignorance, I thought they were bigger and more conspicuous than they actually were. As such, despite doing multiple inspections, I had dropped the ball completely and failed to spot them, leaving my kids at risk of social ostracism on a grand scale. 

Because the only thing that screams social suicide more in this country than wearing an English jersey on Paddy’s Day is turning up in school with nits.

My shame was compounded by the fact that the previous week, the naíonara had sent a note home announcing an outbreak of lice in school, which, rather than alerting me to the perils of hugging other children, had probably been a gentle way of telling me my own child was the Patient Zero in question. 

No doubt, in a more direct-speaking European country like the Netherlands or Norway, this information would have been delivered in a matter-of-fact manner by shouting it across the fruit and veg section of the local supermarket.

Yet in Ireland, we would sooner tell someone their partner is having an affair than their child has lice.

On the day I received this phone call from my husband, I would have been much less upset if I had been told that he had met someone else. At least in that instance, I would have had someone other than myself to blame.

Thankfully, my childminder had already stepped in and done the deed in applying the treatments required to make my kids fit for socialisation again, but still I felt like an utter failure as a parent.

We all know on a rational level that head lice has nothing to do with cleanliness, and yet I couldn’t help feel like I had failed my children on a hygiene level, that we were all somehow absolutely minging, and that word had already spread like wildfire throughout the local WhatsApp groups to that very effect.

Obviously, I went home and repeated the process the following day, including myself and my husband in the treatment, and burning any sheets, pillowcases or clothes which could possibly have been contaminated in the process. 

When it comes to head lice, only a scorched earth response will suffice, and even at that, the resilience of these tiny creatures is the stuff of nightmares. I honestly believe that in the inevitable event of nuclear apocalypse, only my stainless steel travel mug and head lice will remain.

Perhaps some of my shame stems from being a curly girl and having curly-haired children. Despite our hair type demanding a more rigorous hair-washing regimen than our straight-haired counterparts, curly-haired people have long suffered an unjust perception of being somehow less clean and sleek than others, and so the news that we had become infested almost confirmed an irrational fear in me that we were, indeed, less hygienic than others. 

Does this fear have any basis in reality? Absolutely not, but neither does my long-held belief that a shark may well come up through the bath plughole and eat me, and I have been washing myself standing up since my brother forced me to watch Jaws in the mid-90s.

I say all of this because this morning I received a call from my husband saying the toddler had been scratching his head, leaving him to wonder if we were suffering a sequel to the horror film that occurred this time last year. 

If head lice are back in the house, I will be left with no option: we will have to shave our heads. As a type, I see my husband is ringing again. I am hoping it is to announce he is having an affair — anything is better than that tiny comb.