Yes, this question was asked of me the other day. I was conversing with my daycare provider about my job, and we got on the topic of bus duty and my lack of planning/prep time and she was genuinely surprised that I had to do the work that real teachers do. I don’t know if she meant because I’m an art teacher or because I’m part-time (English isn’t her first language), but either way, it still stung a bit. Yes, art teachers plan and prep, and yes, even though I’m only part-time, I still have to plan and prep. Gee, some people sure don’t get it, do they?

As the cold weather approaches, you know, in the back of your mind, they’re coming. In the warmer months you managed to have forgotten about them, but now as the air is chilling, the noses are running and the, um, hands are scratching, it all comes barreling forward to occupy your every thought. It starts out innocently enough; you spot a little scratching here and a little itching there. Then it escalates to a few overheard whispers in the hallway. You wander past the nurses office and notice an unusual increase in traffic. But you don’t think too much about it because you don’t recognize these kids; they’re not your students. And then it happens. You’re taking attendance one day, and when you get to little Susie, her classmates blurt out, “she’s in the nurses office.” “Oh, okay,” you reply. “She…” the students begin. “I don’t need to know why,” you explain, for the millionth time. But they finish anyways, “… thinks she has head lice.” You freeze, your hand hovering over your clipboard as you’re about to mark poor little Susie absent. Head lice? HEAD LICE?! You frantically scan the students seated in front of you. Did that kid just wiggle? You catch something out of the corner of your eye. What was that? You whip your head to the left convinced you just saw Timmy scratch his head. Your eyes get squinty as you study the little squirming, bug infested, rugrats in front of you. Reluctantly you proceed with class, but you’re watching, oh yes, you are watching, and waiting, waiting for the itching that doesn’t quit.

It starts with a little twinge. A small little tickle on the top of your head. You automatically scratch it, with barely a thought. But then it happens again, and you know. YOU KNOW. It’s got to be lice. You replay your day over in your head, panicking and wondering, “Did I hug any kids today?” “Did I bend over when I helped them?” “Did I let my head get too close to theirs?” Did I let my head get lower than theirs?” “Lice jump up, right?” You try to stay calm. Act normal. Carry on. You try not to let the kids see you scratching. You ignore the students’ stares as you try to help Billy draw from across the classroom, with your pencil attached to a 10-foot pole. “What? This is how I always do it.” Geez, kids these days. They don’t pay attention to anything.

As the clock ticks away, you wonder why little Susie hasn’t returned to class. You wonder why the nurse hasn’t called, asking you to start sending students down, two by two. Finally, the students’ teacher shows up, but Susie is still nowhere to be seen. You ponder whether or not it would be professional to inquire about her. Then you silently curse the teacher for not even thinking that head lice might be something you would like to know about. You kick yourself for not getting that haircut you’ve been meaning to get for weeks. With visions of tiny combs and special shampoos, you head home at the end of the day, your scalp tingling with paranoia. Later on in the bathroom you’ll carefully sift through your hair, strand by strand, searching, fearing, but dammit! The sink is in your way and you just can’t quite get close enough to the mirror. As you crawl into bed, your mind boggled with the thoughts of laundry and vacuuming, you wonder if you should visit the nurse yourself the following morning, just in case, and let her pick through your hair with her chopsticks of judgement. As you turn off your light, you can’t help but think, “I bet real professionals don’t have to worry about head lice.”