Misaligned: The Anti-Braces Cases

A recent trip with my son to the orthodontist had me challenging myself to name highly successful people with highly bad teeth. The list I came up with included Flavor Flav, George Washington and Austin Powers. My wife quickly pointed out that Austin Powers is a fictional character, and that Flavor Flav’s grillz cover more or less straight teeth, as far as she could tell. I countered that if you have the Father of Our Whole Dang Nation, to make your point, who else do you need?

You see, my wife and I are having a disagreement about the necessity of orthodonture. My wife feels it is a non-negotiable health and social imperative.  I think we should keep them under close observation, and rush them to get a full set of monorails at the first sign of starvation.  Short of that, braces are nothing but plastic surgery — hair plugs for your mouth.
My wife calmly refers my to the thick and glossy portfolio containing the compelling medical evidence that my children require pricey dentifrices. I wonder aloud, if you think you might need a new vehicle, do you ask a car salesman?

Stink Eye, incoming.

And while we’re at it, why are orthodontists’ offices so nice? Architecturally interesting, tastefully decorated and appointed with the latest electronic amusements, these places look like Bernie Madoff’s Palm Beach estate. What does this say about their margins?  I want an office that would blend right in to downtown Detroit. When I walk in, I don’t want perky, gleaming smiles. I want someone to grab my lapels and gasp, “Thank goodness you’re here, we thought we might have to close for good.”

This line of reasoning got me nowhere. Neither did my arguments under the headings: Crooked Teeth Build Character, Delayed Onset Dating, Look at the English!, Dentures: A Better Investment, or Manned Space Flight to Uranus Would Cost Less.

My wife plays her trump card, pointing out that I had braces as a kid and that’s why I have such “nice, straight teeth.” Which reminded me of something.  I crept into the children’s bedrooms that night and showed them photos. Of me. Circa 1981. Full headgear.

I think that may have done the trick.