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Saturday, March 29, 2008

The Tooth Fairy is still ticked about this one...

Today was the final day of the photo shoot for the upcoming esthetics textbook. The publishing company sent out an art director, her assistant, and Mr. creepy photographer guy (who bears a striking resemblance to Homer Simpson's neighbor, Ned Flanders) to shoot photos demonstrating procedures described in the book. Nearly all the students, 85% of whom are lovely young girls in their early twenties, were given a chance to model. The process was a fairly smooth one, with the exception of the more revealing procedures. Mr. creepy photographer guy, who looked to be in his mid-forties, suddenly had LOTS of technical trouble during those shots, and took three times as long as other procedures because either that ding-dang lighting was off or the dad-gum angle was bad. Hopefully he has better luck retouching his work in what I imagine is his creepy office in his creepy basement.



Ned Flanders

Anyway, today I had to get a head shot--sorry, Mr. creepy photographer man, I meant to say portrait shot, because that's what you prefer--for the "about the authors" page. He had me go outside and stand in front of a tree, positioning me with my feet pointed in one direction, my shoulders toward another, and my jaw in yet another. While I was holding my head at a completely unnatural angle and trying to smile naturally despite the pain in my sterno cleido mastoid muscles, I was thinking about how this mid-life career change came about, and feeling irritated for my failure to write about it while it happened, because it was unlike anything I've ever done before.

Most of you remember that, in order to become an esthetician, I had to quit my job at the university and go back to school. Beauty school. I took a lot of crap on that one, and indeed it was humbling, but I had to get my state license before I could do any other training. I thought I understood what I’d be getting into, because both my sister and a close friend went to similar schools, but I think you really have to be there every day to truly understand what it's like. And what it's like is girl prison. Crazy girl prison. Crazy, coked-up girl prison. I learned more about crack and crank than I did about skin peels, more about which city is the easiest on giving welfare assistance than I did about microdermabrasion, and more about the state prison early release/transition program than I did about the integumentary system. I keep meaning to write it all down and so I've decided to do it here. If anyone remembers a particular tale I've shared, remind me, would you? Here we go…

One of my instructors, we'll call her Miss Pam (school etiquette requires we call all instructors Miss, in a failed attempt to get the students/girl prisoners to show some respect.) Miss Pam kicked a ten-year crack habit a couple of years before, but her teeth are really bad from years of abuse. They’re rotten and causing her a lot of trouble, but she doesn’t have dental insurance. I hang out in her office a lot and fix her computer when it goes south, so I’ve gotten to know her pretty well. She has a sardonic sense of humor and is a huge Dwight Yoakam fan--when she first found out that I like him, too, we became immediate friends and now I can get away with murder around the place. It pays to have powerful friends, especially in girl prison.

Thank you, Dwight Yoakam, for making my life easier to bear in so many ways.

Anyway, the teeth. She’s lost several, but one back molar is obviously hurting her and she’s been complaining about it daily. I try to make her laugh, "Hey, gal, let's getcha some Percocet and a pair of pliers--I'll take care of it, no charge." Success--she laughs out loud, but comes to find me about an hour later.

"Would you really do that? Pull my tooth?"

"What, the pliers? Right."

"Yeah! I'm desperate here."

"You've got to be kidding. I can't pull out a molar with pliers!"

"Yes, you can! In fact, if you do it, I'll check off some of your nail services." Hmmm. Now she has my attention. I have to complete several artificial nail services to meet state requirements, but I’m not doing a single set more than the minimum, because I hate them and never intend to touch them once I get my license. The school expects me to complete three times as many sets as the state, so I’ve been getting out of the extras by trading my computer repair services in exchange for a check mark confirming I've done a full set. (Oh, don't get all uppity with me about it--I'm trapped in a building with people who give themselves tattoos with Bic pen ink and safety pins, people. I need to get out of here ASAP.)

That night I’m riffling through Michael's tool boxes, looking for just the right tool, when he walks in.

"Whatcha looking for, baby?"

"Pliars for pulling a tooth. Or maybe a vice grip..."

"Uh, did you say, "for pulling a tooth?"

"Mmm-hmmm. Which ones do you think would work best?"

"Could you explain what exactly you're talking about?"

"I'm going to pull out Miss Pam's tooth tomorrow. She can't afford a dentist and I'm gonna help her out."

"Uh-huh."

"I figure I just need to get a good strong grip and then pull really hard."

"No way will you actually do it. No way will she LET you do it."

"I'm going to take both of these. I'll clean them up afterwards--promise."

"You are insane."

"Yes, but you can never call me boring."

"That is so true that it scares me."

The next day, a Friday, we wait until the afternoon slows down. Miss Pam takes a pill she had on hand, and we wait until she gets a little giggly. The student floor has been hopping with gossip and speculation on whether or not we're going through with this, but as she and I go into the facial room, it's suddenly completely quiet in anticipation. Miss Pam lies down on the bed, opens her mouth wide and shows me the trouble spot. A bridge that once covered two teeth is still connected to the remaining tooth. I think grabbing the bridge is the way to go. I give her a chance to back out, but she's talked herself into this. I reach the pliers into her mouth, secure them around the tooth, and pull.

"G'OW!!!"

"Sorry! The pliers slipped! Do you want me to try again?"

"Wes, pwease."

Two or three pulls later, she's bawling and I'm sweating. "Miss Pam, are you absolutely SURE about this?"

"WES. WES I'm surh!!! Wust bucking DO it!!!"

Fine. Okay. This time I’m gonna rip out that damn tooth. I look at the pliers, look at her tooth, then become inspired. It's just like waxing--it's all in the wrist! I need to put some power in the pull. I suddenly know I can do this. I reach in again, grab the bridge, and go for the gold. 1. 2. 3. YANK.

Suddenly I am holding up the pliers and staring at a huge, rotten, black-rooted back molar attached to a mangled bridge. Miss Pam's mouth is full of blood, and yet she is attempting to talk. She is…happy.

"Miwhel! Wank you! Oh, it weels bedder aweady! Wank you! Wank you so muth!"


The pair on the left did the trick.

I get her towels and sterile cotton, along with strict instructions to gargle with hydrogen peroxide and water several times a day over the weekend. This is my show, after all, and I am drunk with power. She leans over the sink to clean up and I go out to take a stroll around the floor with my trophy in hand. The endorphins have kicked in and I feel better, too. I just pulled out an adult tooth! And not just any tooth, but a freakin’ MOLAR! Not surprisingly, the hair and nail students are repulsed by my trophy, (they are such wusses) and only the esthetic students share my joy. See, we love picking at blackheads and tweezing ingrown hairs, so a rotten tooth is, like, the ultimate extraction.

Included solely because I think it's funny.

Later, I smugly hand over Michael's cleaned and sanitized pliers and relay my tale. He is incredulous and wildly amused, and I tease him mercilessly for doubting me. I am entirely too pleased with myself.

Over the weekend, I call a friend who's a dentist and ask if I can pay for Miss Pam to get checked out and see what can be done. He is also amused, and offers a free consultation. We schedule an appointment. Turns out, her teeth are in such bad shape that they all need to be pulled and replaced with dentures. He asks if she's interested in having him work on them, or would she prefer to stick with me? Funny guy. Cracks me up.

A healthy tooth is a happy tooth.

Eventually she finds out her cousin is in dental school in Portland, and she gets a mouth full of brand new, pretty white teeth. I won’t see her again for years, but I hope that whenever she sees a pair of pliers, she thinks about getting her tooth pulled in girl prison. I know I do.

1 comments:

Jeralee said...

Ouch! My teeth hurt just reading this. Yes people, always brush and floss your teeth. AND pony up for dental insurance. Interesting, humorous, and gross story all in one. I would think it would be cool and yet yucky to see that nasty tooth.

Next post you will have to blog about a gnarly boil or ingrown hair that you have lanced. Good stuff. But seriously, to make these stories more interesting, you need to post some pictures! Come to think of it, call up your photographer guy. He sounds like one stellar piece of work. He he...