LIFE'S A ROOT CANAL UNTIL THE DAY BRACES COME OFF

San Jose Mercury News

(c) 1996 San Jose Mercury News. All rts. reserv.

06564100 LIFE'S A ROOT CANAL UNTIL THE DAY BRACES COME OFF 
San Jose Mercury News (SJ) - Wednesday, March 4, 1992 By: MARY T. 
SCHMICH Edition: Morning Final  Section: Living  Page: 7E Word Count: 
739

MEMO: Schmich is a writer for the Chicago Tribune.

TEXT: SOMEWHERE  en  route to adolescence I suffered a train wreck in 
my mouth, a calamity  I  noticed one morning at age 14 while inspecting 
my inadequacies in  the  mirror.  On  this particular day I saw what I had 
never fully seen before: My teeth lay toppled atop one another like box cars 
that had jumped the rails.

  As  a  member  of a generation that grew up sure that physical perfection 
was  a  duty and a right, I promptly informed my dentist that my teeth must 
be fixed. He patted me and winked.
   "Nah," he said. "You don't want braces. Your crooked teeth are sexy."

  I  was  embarrassed  and thrilled and completely convinced; only a 
decade later  did  I  realize  I'd  been  duped. The dentist knew that my 
bankrupt father  could barely feed his eight kids, much less allow them to 
luxuriate in  braces,  so  he tricked me with a gallant lie, a psychological 
lollipop that nourished me for years. Until the night I saw myself on TV.

  On that merciless medium that forgives no tick or flaw, I saw my teeth as 
they were, saw that when I smiled, the scary spectacle of my helter-skelter 
teeth obliterated every other feature on my face.

  If  as  a  child  you were blessed by nature or orthodontia with teeth as 
even  as  piano  keys, you cannot know what it is to be a dentally impaired 
adult  in  a  society  that  prizes  the perfect smile. You cannot know the 
indignity  of  having  a  dentist  peer into your mouth and sadly say, "You 
could be a pretty woman if you did something about these teeth."

  As  the  years  passed, my dentists grew more insistent and insulting. So 
did the voice of vanity, the wheedling voice we all carry in our heads, the 
one  that tells us that if only we fix that flaw -- that bald head, sagging chin, 
  crooked  teeth,  whatever  --  we  will  be  eternally  lovely  and universally 
beloved. So finally I surrendered.

  Eight  months  ago, in the pursuit of beauty, I abandoned all pretense of 
beauty,  and  dignity besides. Where once I merely had crooked teeth, I 
now have  crooked teeth and enough wires, brackets and assorted gizmos 
to stock a  hardware  store. Skidding down the home stretch of my 30s, I'm 
outfitted for the junior prom.

  I am not alone. More and more adults are doing this; last year, more than 
a  quarter of a million grown-ups put these contraptions in their mouths. I 
have met many of them in public restrooms, furtively flossing after lunch.

  In  a  tiny, benign way, I have learned what it is to walk boldly through the 
 world despite a conspicuous defect. "How do you eat?" people ask. "How 
do  you  kiss?  Do  they hurt?" "You're very brave," they say, as if braces 
were a terminal disease.

  Particularly  annoying are alleged friends who squint at the $2,500 worth 
of gadgetry in my mouth and say, "Huh. I never even noticed your teeth 
were crooked."  Worst  of  all,  though,  are  those who wail, "But I loved 
your crooked teeth! They were so you!"
  This  cuts  to  my  lapsed-Catholic  quick, that inner sanctum of my soul 
where   I   still   believe   that  though  perfection  should  be  sought, 
imperfections  are ennobling; that individuals, like the societies in which 
they live, should celebrate their differences.

  During  a  recent visit to Japan, I stared in admiration at the mouths of the 
 Japanese.  Beautiful  women  and handsome men lived, laughed and loved 
despite  teeth straight from the Dark Ages. It seems only right that global 
power  is  listing toward a society that does not squander its resources on 
its teeth.

  I  once  saw  an  interview  with a famous Czechoslovakian model who 
upon moving  to  the United States had had her withered, brown, crooked, 
Eastern European  teeth  replaced  with big, white, American ones. I still 
hear the wistful way she said to Johnny Carson, "I miss my old teeth."

  I  know what she means. After this Christmas, when my teeth are 
scheduled to be released, I will no doubt smile proudly, wide and often.

  But  in  my  darkest  heart, I'll know that given a choice and some ready 
cash,  I  chose the normal, the median, the perfectly common, that I lacked 
the courage of my crooked teeth.
  Of  course,  crooked  teeth,  like stray dogs and old cars, are easier to 
romanticize once they're gone.

                Copyright 1992, San Jose Mercury News