My dentist is one half of a handsome Iranian brother duo schooled in London who bring a great deal of gravitas to the dental experience. Suave, I guess you could say. The hygienists on the other hand are more of a mixed lot. My former hygienist at the office--a large shouldered, dour woman who looked as if she might've been Martha Stewart's less attractive twin given up for adoption--invested in New Orleans real estate prior to Katrina, lectured me on the dangers of pasta and basked in the brutality of process. She used a scalpel as if it were a push mower and she was looking at an unruly yard.
Her replacement was always so pleasant and sort of winsome, always burbling about her son's high school achievements and friends. She handled the tools of her trade as if she were Blossom Dearie ... all detail and subtle movement. But something has happened. Yesterday I hardly recognized the woman shuffling slowly by me with her head bent, a good twenty pounds heavier.
I sat with a New Yorker on my lap as she set up around me. She looked at the cover depicting a graduating college class of five and sighed. "I don't get their covers. I enjoy them, but someone always needs to tell me the message."
"Yep," I replied. "They can be evasive. Sideways. That's their appeal, I think."
"This one's easy," she went on. "They're graduating!!"
"Yup," I said, "but notice, only one of the five has a future so bright he needs to wear shades."
She looked at the illustration again, peering at the line of smiling graduates requiring no protective eye wear to deal with the ultra violet promise of their futures. "Oh," she sighed as she gave the magazine a lingering second look before placing it on the shelf and adjusting her goggles. "OK, open wide. Any sensitivities I should know about?"
I shook my head.
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