‘British dentistry, is it?’: A trip to an American dentist shattered my confidence

It’s a stereotype that British people have terrible teeth but since I’ve moved to New York I’ve never felt more self-conscious, writes Holly Baxter

Biting criticism: I returned home less than sure I ever wanted to open my mouth in public again (Getty)

National stereotypes usually have a bit of truth at their core, and there’s one painful stereotype about British culture that I’ve had to admit is somewhat accurate while living in the US of A: our notoriously haphazard teeth. Americans take a military approach to their smiles: whitening fluid that’s banned in the EU lines grocery store aisles like peanut butter or orange juice; incisors which look a bit too pointy are shaved down by over-eager dentists; “gum reduction surgery” involving lasers can be procured by an “aesthetic dentist” if you’re showing too much gingiva when you smile; and crooked teeth are a tragedy, not character-building, on the streets of New York.

Like many Brits, I was half-heartedly offered orthodontia when I was a teen, forgot to follow up, then had dentists afterwards shrug and say “They look pretty OK anyway” at subsequent check-ups. Not so the dentists in NYC. No sooner had I opened my mouth here than a dentist put me forward for a referral with an orthodontist at a specialist practice. And no sooner had I followed up for a Covid-friendly orthodontic check-up over digital camera than I was told by the concerned professional at the end: “Oh dear. I see what the problem is here. Hmm, yes. Awful, really… British dentistry, is it?”

A couple of days later, I don’t think I’m quite ready for the Botox, the experimental surgery, the two years of braces or the philtrum reorienting filler

If you want your self-esteem to be systematically destroyed (or perhaps challenged) then I would recommend entering the American healthcare system. Scared into a full orthodontic consultation after my digital hazing, I arrived at a braces emporium this week and was promptly photographed from every side before having my teeth tugged at and my lips clipped back by metal rods. “See the problem here is mainly skeletal,” said the orthodontist, pointing at an unflatteringly large photograph of my face which had been transposed onto a nearby screen. “That’s why your nose has that weird bump at the end of it. And see how your lips do that thing at the edges? We call that an overly dynamic smile. And if you take a look at how over-pronounced your philtrum is, that can probably only be solved by either surgery or Botox.”

“I was actually sort of wondering about the teeth,” I said from behind the face mask I would probably never take off again, my confidence lying shattered on the acrylic floor.

“Ah, yes, the teeth,” he continued, energetically. “Well, to fix all the many, many problems here with your bite, I’m going to say two years. But you won’t be able to tell any aesthetic difference at the end. Your bone structure is far too gone for that. As a teenager, we could’ve done something about this – but now? Well, you could live with it, or perhaps undergo a dangerous and largely experimental operation we could try at half price.”

Needless to say, I returned home less than sure that I ever wanted to open my mouth in public again. “I think you look fine,” said my fiance without looking up as I recounted my tale, shovelling pretzel pieces into his mouth.

“That’s the Brit in you talking!” I replied, and locked myself in the bathroom.

A couple of days later, I don’t think I’m quite ready for the Botox, the experimental surgery, the two years of braces or the philtrum reorienting filler. While convincing someone to put their hand in their pocket to fix their barely perceptible problems is pretty effective, an even stronger deterrent against doing so for me is to take a good look at my bank balance. Is fixing my back left molar worth the same amount to me as my student loan? Not yet. The pressures of New York City are one thing but, thanks to the genetic contributions of my father, the penny-pinching blood of the Yorkshireman still runs through my British veins.