No, really, I do not want to nit pick any more. As in, never again in a million years! Have you ever used that trite little phrase? Nit picking, who ever really thinks about the true meaning, the origins of nit picking? In my vocabulary it merely meant someone who was overly focused on the details of a matter. So focused, they become a nuisance.
Well, I am here to tell you I have discovered the origins of this term, and honey, it ain't pretty. It all started with a bit of itching. Nothing too unusually really, but I decided to take a closer look. To my horror I found teeny, tiny, shadowy, fiends scurrying about my little one's head. And upon closer inspection, what looked like dandruff, was actually eggs attached to her hair!
Lice, singular form: Louse, a term I reserved for the not so lovely people in my life (admittedly I usually reserve the term for males.... sorry). I can now tell you, make sure the person you are calling a louse truly deserves the title. This parasite is repulsive, its tenacious, and just when you think you are rid of it for good, it rears its ugly little head again.
All this brings us back to nit picking. A female louse lays about 200 eggs called nits, which she attaches to the hair shaft with a strong natural "glue" that is about the consistency and strength of super glue! After special lice killing shampoo, you are supposed to use this gel to comb the nits out with a fine tooth comb. This is the point where I develop a tic and a slightly maniacal laugh. You see, hair gel does not dissolve super glue! Not to mention I have yet to find a comb "fine" enough to scrape these little suckers off her hair. And I must not fail to mention that over the years lice have built up a resistance to the chemicals in the so called killer shampoo. Secretly I think they drink the stuff and laugh it up in little lice bars while waiting for some hot looking lady louse to show up so they can lay 200 or so nits and drive me stark raving mad.....
Ahem. Excuse me. It seems, I got a bit carried away. These things tend to happen when one goes from fairly educated, normal daily life to sitting behind your children chimp-like, picking small creatures from their hair. No longer do I gently caress their heads, no, my fingers now are entwined in their long locks in a primal hunt. It's me or the bugs, and frankly I'm not sure who is going to win this one.
So pass me a banana and Don't Say I Didn't Tell You...