A childhood belief about picking my nose

When I was a young child, I was a fervent nose-picker. One time, in the middle of a prolonged car trip, I'd come down with a slight cold, and had been picking more than usual in a vain attempt to unplug whichever nostril was plugged at the time. Apparently I'd done some damage to the internal nasal tissues, because in the middle of a rather fevered picking session, I came up with a particularly juicy red scab with some nose hair attached. Not realizing the wonderful treasure I'd just dug up, I asked my mother what it what it was, the bloody thing perched happily on my index finger. My father, probably unaware of my treasure, immediately responded, "It's your cold." Before my mother could clarify, my sister started screaming how gross nose-picking was, and I flicked the thing outside the car window. For several years thereafter, I assumed that whenever I had a cold, all I had to do was dig until I pulled out a fat red booger, and my cold would immediately start getting better.