Debra Pickett

The dentist my parents took me to as a kid was a super-nice guy who played Culture Club tapes in his office and artfully used a combination of custom-made retainers and tiny, transparent rubber bands to spare me the indignity of wearing braces. (Of course, now I have this one slight snaggly tooth in front. But it was still worth it.)

And the dentist I see now is a very cool woman who makes jokes about how boring it is to be a dentist and wears neon-trimmed Nikes with her scrubs.

But dental hygienists are another story.

What is with these people?

Pretty much without exception, the dental hygienists I've encountered have been both sadistically mad with their own power ("Open wider. No, wider.") and incredibly sanctimonious about issues like twice-daily flossing.

Lately, I keep getting stuck with Cheryl.

I'm sure she's a nice enough person outside the office, but, somehow, whenever I see her, things seem to go incredibly badly.

She rails about how small my mouth is (ironic, I know) and the apparently strange tendency of my gums to bleed when poked with a sharp instrument.

She also carries on about the importance of gum maintenance to my overall health, routinely warning of the dire consequences I'll face if I don't get with the whole flossing program.

It's getting to the point where I'm sorely tempted to point out that (1) her obesity is probably a bigger health risk than my shoddy flossing habits and (2) maybe it's just that her hands are too large.

In fact, I was kind of feeling like this might be the morning when I really let her have it.

But when she walked in to the exam room, she whispered that she had lost her voice. And so I got to have my teeth cleaned in blissful silence.

It was the best dental appointment ever, unspoiled even by the fact that the free toothbrush they gave me is pink and will totally clash with my bathroom decor.