They never warn you about mosquitoes when you shave your head.

Sure, they talk about razor burns and even sunburns, ingrown hairs and proper shears, but at no point does anybody think to say, “you’ll have to use insect repellent on your head now.” You’d think somebody would think of that, right?

This past Saturday evening was a clear night, and while it was still hot, it was still a break from the oppressively humid morass of the rest of the week, and even earlier that day-when I’d been stuck in traffic while ferrying a friend to and from lunch (to be fair, I wanted the company). Afterwards, I found myself driving aimlessly through some of the more remote suburbs of Montgomery County, Maryland-quietly doing my part to hurry along Global Warming while blasting the AC. It’s been difficult to concentrate ever since the news of my cousin’s death, and it was still a few days until the funeral, and I just didn’t want to be sitting at home staring at the walls.

Eventually the realization that my meanderings had brought me fairly close to a joint Engagement/Birthday celebration to which I had been invited sunk through the funk of my brain, so I decided to go ahead and show up for the barbeque portion of the night’s affair. It was good to see my friend and former colleague, Cori-even if he did dump a glass of wine down my shirt when I arrived. Poor man was trying to give me a hug hello and forgot he was holding the damn thing. Forgive him, it was his engagement/birthday, and I’m fairly positive it wasn’t his first glass of wine…or third.

After he got me a fresh shirt to wear while mine dried out, we sat down to discuss the whirlwind summer that led to the engagement, catch up on his work life since leaving the job we shared, and do the general small-talk thing. Eventually one of my other former co-workers meandered over and we all sat together and carried out our own version of President Obama’s Beer Summit, only we discussed important things-like who had done what with whom in the nap room of our old offices.
As the Sun sunk low beneath the horizon, Cori climbed up a ladder to the roof of his porch, and unfurled a couple of bedsheets, draping them down low over the staircase, creating a curtain that covered the doorway into his family’s old two-story country farmhouse. By the time it was dark, he had arranged several of the chairs and tables in front of his house so they formed a half-circle.

By then, of course, we manly-men-folk had caught onto his little project and proceeded to stack things, run wires, and assist in the setup of the digital projector by which we spent the rest of the evening watching movies and enjoying the night-breeze. Well, that is-until I noticed this itching sensation directly at the tip of my skull…

Right where the damn mosquito got me.

By Sunday morning, the bite had become a welt, distending my head much like those of the mummified Pharaohs, only this thing itched. I’ve always reacted badly to mosquito bites, the doctors attributing it to an allergy to the chemical agent in their saliva to make it easier to drain our precious bodily fluids, or some such nonsense. Fortunately, I can’t really think about such things as mosquito loogies when it feels like I might need to take a rusty nail to this tip of my skull in order to get any real relief from the gnawing itch burrowing its way down to my brain.

They never warn you about mosquitoes when you shave your head, those baldy bastards. They keep their secrets close-to better catch us “noobs” off guard-you see, viewing the tell-tale bites as a badge indicating our unfamiliarity with the pitfalls of this particular hair-styling. I am on to you now, and have passed through this particular trial-by-fire, all the stronger for having endured it.

And you, you blood-sucking-fiend, Next time I’ll be ready for you, weapons in hand.