No Teef It Is Then

I’m sitting in one of those old-school American diners that only seem to exist in films, fever dreams, and the final moments before shit starts to get weird. I don’t trust it. Everything gleams too brightly. Pastel pink booths. Turquoise chrome trims. Tiny glass sugar dispensers catching the neon light like pearly teeth. The tables are polished so aggressively I can practically see my own soul trapped in the lacquer. A jukebox crackles in the corner, playing something obscenely cheerful — a 1950s song about heartbreak. A waitress glides past balancing six milkshakes on a tray, lost in her own perfect little world where nothing ever spills or goes wrong. Outside, rain lashes violently against the windows, smearing neon signs into bleeding streaks of colour. Opposite me sits a girl who apparently believes — with unwavering certainty — that we’re old friends. I’ve never seen her before in my life. Dreams never explain themselves. It simply is. She’s beautiful in that effortless way dream people always are. Glossy hair beneath her jawline. Long lashes. Tiny beauty spot beside her mouth. She’s talking animatedly about some bloke called Hunter while stirring whipped cream into her milkshake with one perfectly manicured nail. Hunter. Naturally, my brain immediately conjures up a man in tweed and a flat cap, dead pheasant tucked beneath one arm, shotgun in the other, firing wildly into the air while screaming “WOOOOOO!” like an aristocratic maniac midway through a shooting-weekend spiral. Honestly, I’m only half listening. Because I am currently experiencing a personal catastrophe. I’m not myself here. I know that instinctively. I’m younger. Seventeen, eighteen at most. My face feels borrowed. Half-familiar. Not quite mine. One of my many parallel lives. And for some deeply offensive reason… …I have a partial denture. And the bastard thing has just snapped clean in half inside my mouth. There’s a tiny crack. Small. Wet. Intimate. Then — Plop. Half the denture drops directly into my strawberry milkshake. I freeze. The front-line soldiers. The fake-smile holders. The important teeth. The human teeth. Fucking typical. My mystery friend keeps rambling about Hunter while I casually plunge two fingers into the milkshake, scrabbling for the plastic just out of reach. Cold strawberry sludge coats my fingertips. I’m trying to look normal. Which, unfortunately, only makes me look exactly like somebody concealing a crime. Please don’t look over here. Please don’t look over here. I run my tongue anxiously across my gums. Empty. God. I’m missing half my upper teeth. The sensation is horrific. The gap feels wrong in a deeply primal way. My tongue keeps returning to the void compulsively, trying and failing to fill the absence. Meanwhile — because dreams are cruel — the waiter keeps coming over to flirt with me. Under normal circumstances, lovely. Right now? Not today, Derek. Not to-fucking-day. Of course he’s handsome too. Tall. Dark slicked-back hair. Rolled sleeves exposing strong forearms. The kind of smile that can melt hearts… then serve them back slightly broken. “You ladies doing alright over here?” he asks warmly. I clap my hand over my mouth so fast it practically echoes. “Mffphh yesh,” I mumble. Yes. I am now fluent in mumble. The waiter smiles politely, clearly trying to decode whatever dying-animal noise just emerged from my face. “You sure?” he asks, leaning casually against the booth. “You look kinda pale.” Because my mouth is in a state of architectural ruin, Derek. I attempt something vaguely smile-shaped while carefully keeping my lips sealed over the dental nightmare happening beneath them. Then disaster strikes. The broken denture slips from my milkshake fingers. Time slows instantly. I watch the thing tumble end over end through the air before landing directly onto the tabletop with a wet little wobble-clack. The waiter stares at it. I stare at it. My mystery friend stares at it. “What is that?” he asks slowly. I snatch it up so quickly I nearly dislocate my shoulder and shove it deep into my jacket pocket. “Oh. Nuffin,” I mumble quickly. “Bottle cap.” The waiter squints slightly. “…A flesh-coloured bottle cap?” “Limited edishun.” I can physically feel panic radiating from my pores now. Please don’t notice my teeth. Please don’t notice my teeth. Because once you become aware of something ugly about yourself, it suddenly feels impossible to believe anyone sees anything else. The waiter studies me for one long unbearable second. Then quietly slides an old folded newspaper across the table. A phone number is scribbled along the top in blue ink. “Call me sometime,” he says with a wink. And all I can think is: Not with this fucking mouth, mate. I excuse myself immediately and speed-walk to the ladies toilets like a fugitive fleeing the scene of a deeply embarrassing crime. The diner bathroom is aggressively pink. Pink walls. Pink sinks. Pink fluorescent lighting. A real Barbie’s House of Horrors situation. I stand frozen before the mirror. Then I smile. Jesus Christ. The sight physically jolts me. Without the front teeth, my entire face changes shape. My mouth caves inward awkwardly. I suddenly look decades older. Not just old. Unwell. Like one of those cautionary before-and-after meth posters schools use to terrify children. I pull the denture from my pocket. It’s snapped neatly in two pale pink halves like a fortune cookie that’s already delivered the bad news. “Come on, you bastard thing,” I hiss. I dig chewing gum from my coat pocket and attempt to weld the pieces together, pushing it into place like faith alone might fix it. “Stick.” I shove it back into my mouth. For one glorious half-second — …it holds. Hope surges instantly. Then — CLACK. The entire thing launches itself straight back out and smashes against the sink. The sound echoes around me like a gunshot. I stare at it silently. Honestly, I’m one more humiliation away from crawling into the ceiling vents and living there permanently. I close my eyes. “No teef it is then.” There’s a sudden bang on the door. “You okay in there?” my supposed friend shouts. “Yesssh!” I spit back. “Be out in a secccc!” But suddenly something changes in the atmosphere. The fluorescent lights buzz louder. The mirror feels wrong somehow. Too reflective. Too deep. Like it’s waiting for me to look properly. So I do what I always do when dreams turn hostile. I force myself awake. The diner dissolves around me like wet paint dragged sideways across glass. And then — I’m standing inside a hair salon. I am myself again. Immediately, my tongue checks my teeth. Still there. Solid. Whole. Present. Thank Christ. Honestly, I could cry with relief. The salon itself is painfully pretentious in that very specific way expensive places always are. All exposed brick walls and minimalist shelving stacked with overpriced hair products named things like Moon Silk, Hydro Essence, and Celestial Root Recovery. And mirrors. Christ. Mirrors everywhere. Huge unforgiving bastards designed specifically to show you angles of yourself you never meant to see — the ones you usually avoid, only to find them lingering with you long after you’ve looked away. One stylist practically launches herself at me. “I’ve been literally DYING to get my hands on your hair,” she gasps, already grabbing fistfuls in both hands. “I’ve spent weeks sketching ideas,” she screeches, spittle flying onto my face. “So many sketches.” She’s staring at me with the intensity of a woman about to perform experimental surgery without anaesthetic. Before I can react, another stylist storms over. “SARA,” she barks. “Wrong fucking customer.” Sara freezes. Still clutching my hair. “Oh.” The manager turns towards me with terrifyingly calm professionalism. “My apologies,” she says smoothly. “If you’d just follow me into the back.” And by “the back,” she apparently means the furthest, darkest corner of the building where they presumably dispose of failed balayages. “Pigeon Pete will look after you,” she says with a wink. Pigeon who? A voice croaks from the shadows. “Oh yes I will.” Snip. Another snip. At first I think this is some kind of joke, but then Pigeon Pete emerges from the darkness. Frankly, the man looks like he’s been dragged directly off the street during some sort of avian-related incident. He’s wearing a filthy wife-beater vest stained with things I genuinely don’t want identified, wild chest hair spilling from the neckline. And his own hair… Dear God. Several pigeons are living inside it. Actual pigeons. Tiny claws shuffle somewhere near his ears. One pigeon blinks at me with startling intelligence before disappearing back into the nest above his scalp. And when Pigeon Pete smiles — No front teeth. Of course. “Excuse the gaps, love,” he says casually. “My pigeons peck ’em out while I sleep.” The pigeons coo proudly. One particularly fat pigeon emerges briefly holding what appears to be a human molar in its beak. I decide immediately not to ask any questions for the sake of my own mental wellbeing. “It’s fine,” I laugh weakly. “Mine have been acting strange all day too.” Pigeon Pete pauses. Very slowly, he tilts his head. “Ah,” he says softly. “One of those.” One of what? But he’s already cutting. And despite the pigeons, the missing teeth, and the fact this man looks like he sleeps face-down in canal water… …he’s extraordinary. The second his hands touch my hair, his whole demeanour changes. The scissors flash silver beneath the dim lights. “So much sadness in hair,” he mutters. “What?” “Hair remembers.” Snip. “Every mirror you apologised to.” Snip. “Every photograph you hated.” My throat tightens unexpectedly. Then Pigeon Pete spins my chair towards the mirror. And I genuinely stop breathing. I don’t recognise myself. I look radiant. Youthful. Expensive. Like someone who belongs in natural lighting. “Oh wow,” I whisper. Honestly, considering this man currently houses pigeons on his scalp, I was expecting emotional damage at minimum. But this? This is witchcraft. Some Voodoo-level shit. “I look…” I start. But emotion catches suddenly in my throat. Pigeon Pete notices instantly. “They always cry at this part,” he says softly. He reaches into his own hair and pulls out a surprisingly clean Kleenex. “Beautiful,” he says. “Truly stunning.” And the weirdest part is… …I believe him. Entirely. For one dangerous moment, I understand how easy it is to trust someone who makes you feel beautiful. I smile slowly at my reflection. All my teeth gleam back at me beneath the salon lights. Perfect. Whole. Mine. “How much do I owe?” I ask. Pigeon Pete smiles. Then slowly begins counting his missing teeth with his tongue. “One…” he begins. “Two… three…” My stomach tightens. “Six teeth, my darling.” My smile falters. “Front ones,” he clarifies softly. Then he calmly reaches into his battered bum bag and pulls out a pair of rusty pliers. The pigeons fall silent. Then, somewhere above his head, one final soft coo. “Now,” he says gently. “This will only hurt if you allow it to.”