A Lousy Time

Becoming a parent brings on responsibilities not known when one was child-free, which is kind of synonymous with stress-free, sleep-deprivation-free, and soccer-ball-and-shin-pads-left-in-the-lounge-room-free.  I have to ensure the former tenants of my womb are nourished and educated.  I have to ensure they are warm and healthy. 

Unfortunately, I also have to ensure their hair remains free from parasitic insects.

My eleven-year-old had been feverishly scratching just near his ears, which is a spot notorious for lice to congregate (that, and the back of the neck).  When his older brother had an infestation many years ago, I remember being on the verge of firing off a ball of burning napalm at his head to get rid of the fuckers, because it seemed no sooner had I applied a treatment, and combed out the dead bodies like some ghoulish war time killing field, another bloody crop would hatch.

I read about a home treatment which seemed simple enough, and it involved Coca Cola.  I'm not going to detail the treatment here, but if you're interested I'm sure you are resourceful enough to google it.  I followed the steps, and applied cola to my son's head.  Having long hair, I thought I should probably treat myself thus in a pre-emptive strike.  I stood nude in the bathtub, and emptied the contents of a 2 litre bottle of 7X (the name of the formula for Coca Cola) over myself.  Although certain the bottle was room temperature, I felt I was undergoing that ice bucket challenge that was all the rage a while ago.  This was so not fun.  After wringing out excess sugary soft drink from my hair, I clipped it up, donned a bathrobe, and sat out the back whereupon a freed my hair so it could dry.  FYI, this home treatment says for one to allow one's hair to dry, and then go shampoo as normal. 

Mr Bingells walked outside and said, 'I'm worried about you.'  I asked why.  He replied, 'You're turning into a coke-head!'  Dad Jokes are corny, but Husband Jokes are corny enough to appear in your stools for days after.

So I sat waiting for my hair to dry.  And waited.  And waited.  Soon I had a dried clump of cola-matted mess tumbling over my shoulders.  It was as sticky and unpleasant as fly-blown fairy floss.  It conjured up an unpleasant memory of an evening in a nightclub some time in the mid-Eighties when an arsehole took it upon himself to empty the contents of his bourbon-and-coke over my head, as 'Rebel Yell' by Billy Idol blared in the background.  To this day, I still don't know why he did that.  The flog has probably gone from emptying drinks on people to glassing them, for all I know.

Anyway, my kid kept scratching his head, and I acquiesced and bought a commercial product, which appeared to work.