Hippocrates and Aristotle both died believing men owned more teeth than women. A hypothesis easily kept when one doesn't peer inside a lady’s yawning mouth, count. Pearled Barley. And where might that leave you now? Slanted in the orthodontist chair as he balks at your pointy canines and premolars. Unfeminine, he concludes, and files each down to an herbivorous curve. The retainer now flush to your mouth’s roof amidst a little powdered bone. You had only wanted the braces off, suddenly you’re a vegetarian. Celery Sticks. Grandma's smile comes pre-shaped and mass manufactured off Chinese ass'mbly lines. No his and hers models, all pink gum and cream tooth and equally endowed with traces of lead. Strawberry Shortcake. You have yet to lap the metal bouquet of instrument scrape and warm trickling down a throat. Maple Syrup. During your only oral surgery you'll be out cold. Spend all your young savings on wisdom extraction so the braces won't be a bust. You’ll come to straight and feminine as ever, but still salt tears drip into the Wendy's frosty as your mommy drives you home. Like something you owned went missing, something secret kept inside. Open wide.

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