Confessions of a Nitpicker

by Christine Schoefer
Issue 92, January - February 1999

Nothing prepared me for my first encounter with a live louse--not the big cockroach battalions invading the shared kitchens of my student days, not the fleas leaping from cat to carpet, not even the "Lice Alert" notice from my daughter's school. One morning during the routine act of tethering my six year old's willful hair into braids, I noticed a dark fleck scurrying among her tresses. I had never seen a head louse before, but I knew that this tiny insect could be nothing else. There is something so repulsive about tiny parasites vampirizing innocent children that my heart started racing. I dropped the comb and fished the school notice from the wastebasket. "Search your child's hair carefully," I read. "If nits are present, immediately apply an over-the-counter shampoo." With extended fingertips, I carefully lifted small strands of Ella's hair to the light and discovered a tiny ecosystem on her scalp. Sesame-seed-sized pearly nits--the dreaded louse eggs--were glued firmly to the roots of hair shafts, and a live louse was seeking refuge behind a softly rounded curl. "Every child can get head lice," the school notice said, "so there is no reason to be ashamed." But the evidence of parasites feasting, mating, and defecating on my daughter's head stirred powerful feelings inside of me. My daughter's head lice triggered a primordial fear that nature could hold our civilization hostage.

Unexpectedly, my mind began to crawl with images I hadn't known it held: locust swarms devouring entire plantations, leeches sucking the very lifeblood from a man until he resembles a shriveled balloon, termites chewing their way through age-old roof beams. I realized suddenly that some part of me believes that insects could decide at any time to plan an invasion of the spaces we inhabit. In this creepy scenario, lice have the job of colonizing the human body.

In order to dispel my irrational fears, I gathered facts. I learned that more than 3,000 species of biting and sucking lice exist, although fortunately only three are partial to human blood. Because of their resilience, it's tempting to ascribe supernatural powers to these tiny vampires. "It only takes one nit to infest an entire classroom," claims a prevailing myth. But lice are not that powerful. They can't hop, jump, or fly, but must climb up to the human scalp step by step. Still, as a species, lice are astonishingly fecund. Each female lays eggs three to five times each day; that is more than 100 eggs in her 30-day life cycle. And these are bonded to human hair shafts with a substance that puts super glue to shame.

One good thing that you can say about head lice: They are very democratic pests. Anyone can get head lice, regardless of social standing, education, housing, good behavior, or cleanliness. St. Francis probably carried the tiny, unwanted crawlers under his hood; Queen Victoria felt itchy beneath her jeweled crown; and George Washington scratched under his powdered wig.

But ubiquity hasn't improved the louse's popularity. A recent study found that more than half of all Americans would be embarrassed by head lice in the family. I think that number is too low; it's probably closer to 100 percent. Hairdressers tell me that parents always cringe when told that their beloved youngster's scalp is crawling. One father even confessed to me that buying antilice shampoo for the first time was almost as discomfiting as buying condoms as a teenager.

Meanwhile, lice infestations are on the rise. Because most cases of pediculosis (the formal name for a lice attack) are diagnosed and treated by parents, who don't report to the CDC, few reliable statistics are available. But many public health officials refer to a new pediculosis "epidemic." And there seems little doubt that about twice as many children are being diagnosed today as ten years ago. Children aged five to 12 are particularly vulnerable, since they often put their heads together during play. As a result, thousands of parents of grade schoolers like myself are learning to appreciate the descriptive power of that old phrase "going over things with a fine-toothed comb." It's how you delouse. Endlessly.

What accounts for today's sudden head louse epidemic? Debra Altschuler, founder and director of the National Pediculosis Association (NPA), sees no particular mystery. She says it's a matter of louse laxity. Our grandparents were practically always on lice alert, using whatever folk remedies were available, and incorporating meticulous head lice screening into their hygiene routine. My mother vividly remembers the tiny raindrop sound of lice hitting the newspaper beneath her head as my great-aunt carefully combed her hair every Saturday night.

During this time--the 1940s and 1950s--the fear of communicable diseases had in fact pushed hygiene to the forefront of the public health agenda. Children knew about germs and were taught in schools how to wash their hands. But in the late 1960s, a major shift occurred, Altschuler says. Young people began rebelling against their parents' ways and congregating or living in groups. Hygiene habits relaxed and casual intimacy boomed. And head lice began roaming free.