![]() “There was something done,” she insisted. “No, that’s just the way they are,” he said, betraying an unlikely touch of genetic pride. ![]() ![]() The year I lived with my father in Massachusetts, sixth grade, vivid because it was the exception, he found himself in a bizarre argument with a dental hygienist over whether my teeth had had some kind of early help in formation or alignment. I can’t imagine the relief, never having had such metalwork installed. It was a milestone, to be sure, and she sure was happy, flashing her newly pure smile for my cellphone camera, in the passenger seat’s vanity mirror, later around the house. Probably just as well, because whether I would’ve been horrified, fascinated, or just plain worried, her description of the popping sound of the glue giving way bettered any reality, imitating it by holding up her hands and cracking her knuckles. My youngest had her braces successfully ripped from her 13-year-old jaws the other day, while I tried to nap in the orthodontist’s parking lot, kept at bay by Covid protocols. ![]()
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