Or, heaven forbid, on your head.

Last week the Letter came home. The one that strikes fear into my heart. The one that says cheerfully, ‘someone in your child’s class has discovered a louse.’ The very minute, no, the second, I read those words my head starts to itch. Even after I peer at every dratted section of my daughter’s hair, even when I make my husband check mine, little phantom tickles bury themselves into my scalp.

The sad thing is, this happens every time one of those cursed missives lands on my lap. I shouldn’t be surprised really. When he was a lot younger, my dad read a book about horse diseases and diagnosed himself with every single one. Runs in the family.

Wait, what does?!

Of course, sometimes you can’t rationalise yourself out of things because bad stuff happens. I told myself I was just imagining things until the consultant spelt it out. I looked away when I saw something moving in my daughter’s hair two years ago.

But then, I wised up and faced the problems. Hiding doesn’t make anything go away. That’s what the wee pests want.

Sometimes, it’s impossible to stand up and face things alone. That’s when it’s so important to ask for help.

I remember coming across a children’s book about a little girl who lugged round a massive bag everywhere she went. Then one day a very kind lady sat beside her and between them they took out all her packages, which turned out to be her worries, and emptied that bag.

What’s in yours? Have you ever tried getting someone to help you empty it? Most times, I carry my troubles round so much that I can’t remember what a good night’s sleep looks like. I even get dangerously attached to it. Like a head louse you might even say.

As I sign off, head still itching, I’ll leave you to scratch yours.

I bet you do!