“I trust you,” I promised. “And I don’t want to sleep with bugs in my hair.” I really, really did not want to sleep with bugs in my hair. Lice bite you. They suck your blood, something I hadn’t fully considered even six weeks earlier when they’d romped around on my youngest son’s head. “You already demonstrated your ability with the clippers,” I reminded him.

Six weeks earlier, I’d looked on as my husband buzzed our youngest boy’s hair. It was my husband’s first foray with the clippers, and he’d proved his mettle. For the 9-year-old to lose his long, blondish, constantly-matted-with-tangles locks was tough. He’d never cut his hair. He protested each of his extremely infrequent trims. The hair that blanketed his back helped define his identity. But because he’d been completely infested with the little buggers, he’d succumbed — not by choice — to the buzz cut. That extreme haircut was the only way he’d be admitted to a beloved two-week overnight camp.

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