Horrid Henry's Nits

Horrid Henry's Nits

Horrid Henry's Nits Scratch. Scratch. Scratch. Dad scratched his head. “ Stop scratching, please, " said Mum. “ We're eating dinner. ” Mum scratched her head. “ Stop scratching, please, " said Dad. “ We're eating dinner. " Henry scratched his head. “ Stop scratching, Henry! " said Mum and Dad. “ Uh-oh, " said Mum. She put down her fork and frowned at Henry.

“ Henry, do you have nits again?” “ Of course not, " said Henry. “ Come over to the sink, Henry, " said Mum. “ Why?" said Henry. “ I need to check your head. ” Henry dragged his feet over to her as slowly as possible. It's not fair, he thought. It wasn't his fault nits loved him. Henry's head was a gathering place for nits far and wide. They probably held nit parties there and foreign nits visited him on their holidays.

Mum dragged the nit comb across Henry's head. She made a face and groaned. “ You're crawling with nits, Henry, " said Mum. “ Ooh, let's see, " said Henry. He always liked counting how many nits he had. “ One, two, three . . . forty-five, forty-six, forty-seven . . . " he counted, dropping them on to a paper towel. “ It's not polite to count nits, " said his younger brother, Perfect Peter, wiping his mouth with his spotless napkin, “ is it, Mum?” “ It certainly isn't, " said Mum. Dad dragged the nit comb across his head and made a face. “ Ughh, " said Dad. Mum dragged the comb through her hair.

“ Bleeeech, " said Mum. Mum combed Perfect Peter's hair. Then she did it again. And again. And again. “ No nits, Peter, " said Mum, smiling. “ As usual. Well done, darling. " Perfect Peter smiled modestly. " It's because I wash and comb my hair every night, " said Peter. Henry scowled. True, his hair was filthy, but then . . . “ Nits love clean hair, " said Henry. “ No they don't, ” said Peter. “ I've never ever had nits. ” We'll see about that, thought Henry. When no one was looking he picked a few nits off the paper towel. Then he wandered over to Peter and casually fingered a lock of his hair.