It’s amazing what a difference a few years make.
In December 2008, I wrote this. And I meant every word. Go ahead, read it.
I’ll still be here.
I truly believed that lice was an unfortunate but natural part of life. That it was no big deal.
But that was because I was an idiot who understood absolutely nothing.
Lice is a huge deal and people with lice should be forced to wear shirts embroidered with a Red L. Or bedazzled, whatever. The point is that people with lice they must be identified from a distance and avoided.
Like the plague.
This is what happened.
Last Thursday afternoon. I have the premiere of Russian Dolls that evening to look forward to.
I go to Sephora for a tasteful makeup application. During the tasteful makeup application, I am informed that the foundation is oxidizing on me weirdly and that my face looks yellow.
No one is happy with this development, and we wipe off the yellow foundation and start over. This time the foundation is spray painted on me, as though I were some kind of a Mustang. Unfortunately, and possibly because of the previous application of Jaundice, I’m covered sprayed with a color that I can only assume is called The Paler Shade of Kabuki. I look insane. Insane, but happy, because of the aforementioned Russian Dolls premiere.
I then go to a salon called Blow to get my hair blown out. I try to explain to my hair consultant what I want my hair to look like, as though I’m a contestant on Project Runway giving the final styling instructions. I want it highish, I say, but not as high as Marge Simpson. Having clarified that, I sit back to enjoy a magazine article about ways to improve the world. Or about Kim Kardashian’s wedding.
And then I get an email.
It’s from my daughter’s friend’s mom and she’s letting me know that her daughter has lice.
Her daughter that slept over at our house a few days ago.
Her daughter that my daughter has been spending tons of time with.
My entire body starts to itch.
For the first time in my life I understand why some women choose to apply hot wax to their genitalia.
Fucking hell, I say.
My Blower asks what’s wrong.
There’s no way that I’m telling a man elbow deep in my hair that I am one degree of separation from lice.
The email wants to know if we girls are still on for dinner that night.
Of course!! I reply. The extra exclamation point should be a sign of over-enthuisiasm and therefore a total lie. I text my daughter to tight braid her hair and wear a hat to dinner. And possibly a burkha.
I let them go out to eat but I wouldn’t allow either girl to spend time at the other’s house. And definitely no sleepovers. (My daughter left for the dacha two days later.)
It made me uncomfortable.
Because I didn’t want to treat this kid as though she had the plague.
But I wanted to get lice even less.
One year ago ...
- Friendship - 2013