Note to readers: The following is a rewrite of a column that appeared in 2009.

I always will remember my first encounter with witch hazel. I was about 6 years old and – for whatever reason – running headlong around my parents’ house. Eyes down, arms outstretched, I was chasing after something my tender young brain had deemed very important when, BAM! I hit a wall.

Needless to say, the racing around ended rather abruptly, and I was left to ponder the sensation of my forehead expanding into a nice-sized lump. “Quite an egg,” I remember my mom saying as she wrapped up some ice in a washcloth and set it on the bulging knot. “Better get the witch hazel.”