Magic Johnson perfected the no-look pass. Cedric Ceballos the no-look dunk. But they’ve got nothing on my dental hygienist. Yeah, she’s a no-look hygienist.
Nobody likes the dentist. Generally, here’s how it goes for me:
“How often do you brush?”
“Twice a day.”
“Great. How often do you floss?”
“Twice in my life.”
Usually they laugh and ask “No, seriously.”
I couldn’t be more serious.
Then we get down to business. Business usually involves lots of pointed metal things poking my gums. It’s unpleasant, I bleed a little, I rinse, I spit. I go on my merry way.
Not this time. This time my hygienist was trying her hardest to reinvent dentistry. We exchange pleasantries, she gets to work. She’s grabbing her metal scrapers, I’m focusing intently on the light above my head, hands clasped to my chest. She pokes my gums, my hands clasp a little tighter.
And then it happens: As she’s scraping my teeth, I notice her turn her head and look into the hallway. Shit, I’m tempted to look in the hallway. Did Britney Spears walk by? Rosie O’Donnell? Maybe a hairy sasquatch? Nah, in either case I would have smelled something queer.
I figure it’s an isolated incident. She continues cleaning. She’s working my molars over pretty good. A solid scrape hits the gumline, causing me to wince. And then another. I take my eyes off the light and she’s looking into the hallway again.
Five more gum slashing lookaways later and I’m a bloodied mess. I’m rinsing and spitting more than Jenna Jameson.
And then we’re done. I never did determine what she was looking at in the hallway. Maybe she sees dead people. Maybe she had a kink in her neck. Or maybe she’s just a god-awful excuse for a dental hygienist.
