It's the time of year when people's thoughts turn to creepy-crawlies and blood-sucking demons. Yes, tomorrow is National Bug-Busting Day, a regular attempt to eradicate the plague of headlice that currently swarm through our children's hair. If Bug-Busting Day sounds like another product of the nanny state, then hurrah for that, I say. The current state of trichological health could frankly do with a brimstone-and-treacle approach.
When I was a child, headlice were something to be mentioned in hushed horror. There was undoubtedly an element of snobbery in this, since lice were regarded as the preserve of the very poor. Now, far more openness prevails, which has to be a good thing, but nits seem more widespread than ever. It baffles me that in an age when most childhood diseases are vaccinated against, and children in general enjoy a standard of living far beyond the expectations of previous generations, I hardly know a single child who has not had the blood sucked out of their scalps at least once .
Headlice are no respecters of cleanliness or income. It makes as much sense to be embarrassed by them as it would to be ashamed of being bitten by mosquitoes. They don't care whether the strands they cling to belong on a head that's being crammed at some exclusive prep school. So they're a great leveller.
I first became aware of the problem in the middle-class idyll of a French holiday chateau. A large group of families was sharing the property, and one child arrived unwittingly harbouring a couple of stowaways. The little buggers spread like billyo, clambering joyfully from head to head. Pretty soon, every child and several of the parents were scratching and feeling faintly disgusted with themselves. The remainder of the holiday was spent administering foul-smelling lotions and scraping our offspring's pates with the sort of metal combs favoured by medieval torturers.
The reactions of parents and carers to the discovery of headlice vary wildly. I know of one mother who shaved her daughter's head, which strikes me as a little excessive. Most people go down the pesticide route, or put their faith in some less alarming herbal alternative. The current wisdom seems to be that wet-combing with the aid of lots of conditioner is as good as anything. But there are those who do nothing at all, either because they haven't noticed, or are embarrassed, or simply think that it's not life-threatening and therefore doesn't merit too much attention. Well, it does.
Perhaps I'm more zealous than some because of my job. As an actor, it really doesn't do to turn up in a make-up room with your hair moving independently from your head. So my kids get checked every week. But though it is now socially acceptable to talk about nits, it still isn't quite done to suggest to others that they get their scalps in order. That's where Bug-Busting Day comes in. The idea is that if everybody in the school checks their children on the same day, then the spread will be interrupted. However, at our last Bug-Busting Day, in spite of the enticing offer of free tea and a biscuit, only four people turned up.
This is one area where the nanny state is not nannyish enough. A leaflet is no substitute for real expertise. We don't expect parents to check their children's teeth for cavities - although the way NHS dentistry is going, it may only be a matter of time before we do. We need to send the experts in. The reason I never had nits is because we had Nitty Noras, trained, strong-stomached stoics who went into schools, checked every child and then informed the parents about what to do. If only the state would employ a few of those, we could put a stop to the endless round of itching, combing and chemicals.
I'll stop banging on about it now, and go and wet-comb my hair. All this talk of bug-busting has made me feel distinctly itchy.
