I went to the dentist today.  It’s a commitment my mother won’t let me forget.  “A darling smile will one day bring you delight and piles of money!” she would say.  It has been many years and I have yet to see any piles of money.  I have seen sprinkles of delight from time to time, though.

I digress.

I was trying out a new dentist, Dr. Johnston.  My last dentist was for people with piles of money.  There were young, attractive hygienists and a waterfall made of stone.  When I realized that I did not yet have the piles of money promised to me by my dear mother, I decided to search out a more financially reasonable option.

Dr. Johnston’s office had a beach theme complete with sandy murals, beach chairs, and and the smell of fake suntan lotion.

Dr. Johnston himself was a young man with curly, red hair and eyes that were too close together.  He was in his early 30’s no doubt, and kind as a button.  He had a firm handshake and a quick wit.  He was quite the delight (despite the weird eye thing).

He checked my teeth and scraped some tartar from my lower lateral incisor.  As is customary, he complimented my teeth and mentioned how rare it is to see a patient my age who had never had any cavities.  I smiled at the thought that I had given him something to talk about over dinner with his wife and two young children.

After he scraped my tartar, he excused himself and said the hygienist would be right in to “polish me up”.  As I lay there in the chair I wondered what other people look at when the dentist’s fingers are prowling around their mouths.  After all, his face is about a foot from your face, and he is staring right at you.  Yet it’s too awkward to stare at his face.  But at the same time, it’s awkward to obviously stare past him (which is my go to move).  I could close my eyes.  But what if I fall asleep?  Awkward.

My thoughts were interrupted as the hygienist entered the room.  She was nothing like the hygienists at the waterfall dentist.  She was easily 65 years old with a tight perm that was over dyed and clashed with her light skin tone.

As she sat down in the swivel chair next to me, she grabbed some tools, titled my chair back, and leaned over me.

“Hi. Open wide.”

She was looking at me.  What was I to do?  I decided I was going to try the “look at her face” route.  So I looked at her.  She had a mustache.  I panicked.  I didn’t know where to look.

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