Dr. Supertooth Knows When You’re Lying
I hated going to the dentist when I was a kid. It didn’t help that I possessed both a sweet tooth and a hatred for brushing and flossing. This wasn’t a winning combination for a fun time at the dentist. My mom would always remind me of the approaching dental appointment, and the night before I’d brush and floss the shit out of my teeth hoping to undo in two minutes what six months of neglect had caused. Of course, we know it doesn’t work that way.
My dentist went by the moniker “Dr. Supertooth,” even going so far as to dress up in white tights with red underwear and cape. Emblazoned across his chest was an emblem like Superman, except instead of a giant “S” there was a tooth. He was kid-friendly, his waiting area littered with Highlights magazines and Nintendo games. This was all meant to deceive children that going to the dentist was fun. I knew better, though, and didn’t touch any of those fun activities. I just sat there and stared straight ahead with what I thought was a look of defiance, but probably more closely resembled a mixture of fear and nausea.
The worst part about the waiting room was I could hear what was going on in the back. There were partitions to block the view, but they weren’t soundproof. I could hear the drills and other gizmos whirring. And worse, I could hear children squealing. I sat there white knuckling the armrest until I was grabbed by a smiling dental hygienist sporting a pink smock adorned with teddy bears or puppy dogs. Her garb was another clever ruse designed to trick the unsuspecting child into believing this would be a pleasant experience.
The hygienist led me to a sink where we all kept our toothbrushes in plastic containers in something that resembled a spice rack. It was always unnerving seeing children’s names scrawled in their awful penmanship on their toothpaste cases. They were like little tombstones or cries for help. I wasn’t sure why the dentist made us all brush our teeth before going into the patient area. Perhaps children’s mouths are extra awful and need one last touch up before being examined?
Teeth brushed, I moved into the patient area (aka torture chamber), which was an open space with large windows overlooking the parking lot. Along the ceiling were TVs showing cartoons, sometimes something good like Aladdin but usually something crappy like The Land Before Time. There were chairs dotted around the perimeter with no partitions between them. You were close enough to the kid next to you to exchange looks of fear, but far enough away that you couldn’t hold hands.
The hygienist sat me down and put that weird paper (is it paper?) bib on me. I always hated that feeling of cold metal around my neck. She then sat in her swivel stool and smiled at me. Actually, I’m not sure she was smiling since her mouth was covered by a mask. Her twinkling eyes could’ve just as easily been indicating sadistic pleasure. She slowly leaned my chair back so I was now completely at her mercy. She shined a bright light down into my mouth like a police interrogation then looked into my foul, unkept mouth and asked, “Have you been flossing and brushing regularly?”
“Three times a day!” I lied.
“Right,” she said, with her eyebrows raised. Then, she went to work.
I always wondered whether they taught hygienists that it hurts like hell when you jab metal instruments into little children’s gums. If they did, the hygienist currently working on my teeth certainly missed that class. She jabbed at my gums with that weird hook tool while removing what I presumed was tartar buildup (everything I knew about dental hygiene I learned from television, which constantly reminded us that tartar is evil and must be eliminated, or even better, prevented completely with Colgate extreme tartar prevention toothpaste).
I’m not a brave person. If pressed, I would admit I’m a coward. However, I never ever screamed, whined, or showed any sign of discomfort while having my teeth cleaned. I may have flinched occasionally when the pain was especially bad, but I never cracked. I always thought the hygienist was trying to punish me for my lies, prying a bit closer to my gums than she needed to, especially when it came to flossing. Since I never flossed, that 60 seconds of plastic string meeting flesh was excruciating as the floss sliced through my swollen gums. I could taste the irony tang of blood as she hacksawed the floss back and forth. I still didn’t say anything. I just gripped the armrest while staring up at the TV.
Seeing that she couldn’t crack me with brute force, the hygienist turned to psychological tactics. She tried appealing to my vanity, saying girls won’t like a boy who has a “grungy” mouth and that they’d call me “grunge mouth.” Little did she know that when it came to the opposite sex, a grungy mouth was the least of my worries. Seeing that vanity wasn’t working, she tried shame. She said my teeth were in really bad shape, worse than most kids she saw. Then, she gave me a score of 0, which on the Dr. Supertooth scale of 1 through 5 was essentially an F minus. Again, I wasn’t worried. If this were a real test, my mom would be pissed, but I knew she didn’t recognize any exams that didn’t directly affect my GPA.
“You sure you’ve been brushing and flossing regularly?” she asked.
“Rrrrhhh hhhnnnhhhh,” I replied.
I never understood why the hygienist asked questions while she had all these instruments in my mouth. She eased up when she heard me, apparently taking my response as “uh huh” when it was actually “uh uh.” This led to the only pleasant part of the cleaning. The moment where she asked me which flavor of polish I wanted. I always chose bubblegum because my parents never let me chew bubblegum, which I felt was a denial of an important part of the American childhood experience. I sat back and relaxed as the hygienist used a super loud tool to blast my teeth with gritty bubblegum flavor.
With my teeth now clean, it was time for Dr. Supertooth. He was a young-ish guy in his mid-thirties. He also sported an earring and long, curly brown hair that always seemed wet (later I would learn this is due to curl activator). He was still of the age where he could pull off white tights without being hauled into jail for questioning. He was always super friendly and asked me questions about my life and was always trying to butter me up.
I now know this was part of the “good cop, bad cop” routine. The hygienist was the enforcer, there to break me so that any show of kindness from Dr. Supertooth would result in frank answers. I hate to admit it, but it worked like a charm on my 9 year-old self. When the dentist asked me if I’d been brushing and flossing regularly, I knew I couldn’t deny him the truth. He gave me a look that pierced my soul and seemed to say, “Lying is futile.” I bashfully admitted that I didn’t floss and only brushed once a day (and even that was an exaggeration).
He smiled and patted me on the shoulder then examined my teeth. On a good day, he’d tell me to brush and floss regularly then send me home. But, on a bad day, he’d discover a cavity (or two) that needed filling. This was a bad day. He told me my poor brushing habits had led to a rather large cavity. It was time for a reckoning.
I saw the hygienist smirk as she brought over the tray of cavity-filling tools, including a giant needle for Novacane. Nothing the hygienist had done earlier frightened me, but the sight of a huge needle made me go ape shit. I thrashed around and struggled as the dentist told me to be calm. That it wouldn’t hurt. Lies! The tables were turned and now I knew he was the liar. I gripped the armrest and made a gritting noise as I had seen my favorite Dragon Ball Z characters make when they were in extreme agony.
I admit now that it was all a bit much, but even as a kid I was melodramatic. The needle didn’t hurt that much, and I ended up enjoying the numb sensation in my mouth. The dentist let me hold up a mirror so I could watch him drill the cavity out and fill it with some kind of goop that would apparently harden into a tooth-like surface. He patted me again on the shoulder, and I responded by drooling at him.
I walked back to the waiting room where my mom gave me a stern look. She cut the receptionist a check, ripping it out of the checkbook a bit more loudly than necessary to signal her disapproval with me. In the elevator, she scolded me for not brushing and flossing regularly. She told me she’d be sure to make sure I did, which we both knew was a lie. Weak teeth ran in the family. Honestly, I wasn’t listening to her that carefully. I was just happy to have survived another trip to the dentist. Thankfully they were only once every six months. Although, that would soon change once I got braces, but that’s a story for another time
