one: turned out // two: badlands x confident liar
"I hate them."
"They're not that bad!"
"You're only saying that because you feel sorry for me. And besides, you've never had braces, so how would you know?"
It was true. I had never had braces. I was lucky I had teeth that were straight and simple and not too fussy. I was in year 9 and all of my friends had metal wires and funny coloured bits and pieces clamped on their teeth. Some were pink, or orange, or blue. I felt like I was missing out on something. It seems kind of silly now, especially with a little brother who has just had his put on, and who cried himself to sleep on the first night, but they kind of seemed like they might be fun. Braces en rose, like a Teen Vogue editorial, on a girl with good skin in a luella dress with a sweetheart neckline. Braces were ice cream sundaes for lunch.
It was only when faced with the actual, real, tangible prospect of having them that it became clear that I didn't really want them, not even a little bit, not at all. When the dentist surveyed some minor problem in the bottom of my mouth (which right now has reared its ugly head as wisdom tooth debacle, great timing, teeth) and said, grim-faced to my mum that I might need braces I bolted upright in the dentist's chair and almost yelled out NO. Braces would mean no more spiders at Mickeys, no more smoothies after school, no more redskins at Saturday sport (which, let's face it, was probably the root of all problems). I wasn't going to give those up, not for any sweetheart neckline dress or pink-stained lips fantasy. At 15 I realised, as I would time and time and countless times again, that the reality was always so much better than the fiction.
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