22 hours later

Step 2: Selfie required

Not even 24 hours have elapsed and I'm back in the dentist's chair. We have a conversation which I wish we had have had yesterday because to be forewarned is to be, well, forewarned. It went something like this:

Me: I cooked pasta for supper last night because it seemed the least braces-threatening of meals possible. However after the first mouthful I realised that my upper and lower teeth no longer have contact. I couldn't chew. NO. CHEWING. [At this point I'm showing her how fucked up the situation was in my mouth...]

Dr R: Yes. They won't touch for a while. Maybe in a few days - no, let's say a week - you should be able to do some version of a gurn/chew type thing. It won't take long.

Me: So to be clear, for the next week (at least) I will only be able to drink smoothies and slurp soup?

Dr R: Yes. This is the pay-off for getting your teeth and jaw lined up within the space of only four months. It's extreme, but things will get better really very fast.

Me: Oh... [slight pause while I think about this unexpected liquid food diet, mental scan of fridge] ...gin soup for supper then.

Balaclava time

Step 1: Selfie required

I've been dreading today... So much so that I've been putting today off for at least 30 years. But all that avoidance ends today. No more vanity, no more shame, no more waking up with lockjaw, no more headaches, because today I get braces on my lower teeth.

As with that unfortunate little bout of cancer earlier this year, I shall be posting random updates on what it's like to be 50 years old, divorced, single, chronically shy, vain as all fuck and sporting the visage of a spotty metal-mouthed teenager whilst living in a city famed for its love of the beautiful and disdain for the afflicted.

Wish me luck. Or at least, please try not to laugh.