In today’s culture, every adolescent falls into one of two categories: They’ve either had braces on their teeth or will get them. Guaranteed. Two of my sons were born with straight teeth. No matter. They got braces. Now their teeth are truly perfect, and I’m broke.
Orthodontia is now a boom industry. Just look around. Their offices are more plentiful than the golden arches. They are in strip malls, on pricey street corners and have taken over all the prime spots in Johnson County.
All of this comes with a substantial price tag. Orthodontists have a solution for this, of course. They offer elaborate plans of financing with multipage contracts. You sign it in triplicate in four different places. Car leases are more understandable. They offer payment plans over five to 10 years. When your son gets his college diploma, you’ve paid the bill in full.
Let me be clear, however. I like my son’s orthodontists. It’s a husband and wife team. They are masters at beautiful teeth. Their office is a cross between the pediatrician and a hair salon operated by a loan officer. It’s a highly efficient operation.
Your appointment begins with a phone call—from a computer reminding you of the appointment. When you arrive, the waiting room is filled with patients. Average age: 11. The magazine rack features Highlights, Gameboy Today and Power Rangers Illustrated.
Eventually your son will take a seat in a line with similarly aged patients and wait as the doctors move down the line to adjust, pull and manipulate the wires. For every doctor there are nine assistants. They are drones the doctors purchased at some orthodontist convention in Malibu.
This year my seventh-grade son gets his braces off. Then we can start life with a thing called a retainer. In Spanish the word retainer means “lost.”
The only family member who can consistently find our retainer is Bernie. The dog. And when he is finished with it, it’s back to you know where.
I am not used to any of this. In western Kansas most parents couldn’t spell orthodontist, let alone hire one. In the early 70’s many small towns were lucky to have a dentist. Childhood imperfections were a part of life. And crooked teeth were part of being a kid. Every neighborhood had kids with teeth that were either buck, chipped or just dead. It was like a birthmark. Dental malformations were how you could tell the kids apart.
I can’t tell you how many times around the dinner table my dad would ask:
“Now which friend is that?”
“Dad, he’s got the chipped front tooth.”
“Upper or lower?”
“Lower.”
“Sure. Nice kid.”
Back then the parents who demanded perfection in their children made them endure torture worthy of the Hussein brothers. We had an orthodontist who drove to Great Bend one day a week from Hutchinson. Dr. Morrison was his name and many readers older than 50 probably remember him. Ninety-nine percent of his patients were girls. The wiring on their teeth was thicker than bridge cable. His patients’ mouths had more metal than most Buicks. My older sister Kate got braces. She would get food stuck between the metallic bands that a high powered water hose couldn’t dislodge. It was disgusting. And her breath could gas out a small army. Her braces included huge springs like a trampoline across her front teeth. At night she wore more head gear than a hockey goalie. She plastered her face in Clearasil, with her hair wrapped around orange cans (It’s true—ask my brothers!) It put her in a very bad mood.
And living with three brothers did nothing to improve her disposition. She was the devil, I’m pretty sure. But you should see her teeth now. Absolutely perfect.
So things have changed a lot in 30 years. Braces are everywhere. Even Tom Cruise got them. That hasn’t helped me understand any of his movies, however.
So if you see my sons, please make them smile. And ask them to hold it for a long time. I need to get my money’s worth.