Dan Morris: Bracing for dalliance with dental drama

When I was younger (so much younger than today), rather than not needing anybody's help in any way, I required the services of several sterling dentists.

My teeth were not a war zone as much as they were the elephant graveyard à la classic Disney smasher, The Lion King. Don't get me wrong, I was a cute kid (still got it even now), but the chompers were, for many years, a bit of a blemish on one's otherwise cherubic visage.

When I was about six or seven, the first procedure to tame the unruly piano keys I kept in my jaw was undertaken. I had – if I remember rightly – about six teeth removed to give the other Bugs Bunny behemoths room to breathe. This worked well, and all of a sudden my resemblance to Freddie Mercury was reducing. Thinking back, I'm not sure why my mother was an advocate of this. She was a huge Freddie fan, and for all she knew was destroying the potential for her baby son's own four-octave range. There though, we perhaps have the reason – for her, I'm sure, the single octave that had so far been belted out by the brat that was me had been more than enough.

It wasn't until I was 13 that further work to give me a million-dollar smile was carried out, and now it was time for me to 'brace' myself. I was measured up for a set of retainers, and my parents were told by my orthodontist that if I were to keep them strapped in from dawn 'til dusk and beyond, I'd be a genuine Tom Cruise by the time I needed a razor.

This was a task that was easier said than done for a somewhat vain little chap who had just discovered girls, hair gel and more girls. As such, as soon as the school bus was out of sight of my parents' drive each day, pop went my mouth's plastic prison, and I said goodbye until bed to my less-than-flattering face furniture. Because of this, the prescribed transformation time was extended, and I was almost 16 by the time I was joyfully able to bid my retainers farewell for good.

Eventually, all was relatively tickety-boo for me in the teeth stakes. Granted, I never quite became the proud purveyor of Mr Cruise's 'Maverick' mush, but, considering what I had started with, my grin now stands as a good 'un.

And so, as the ten-month-old Little Miss Morris currently sits bidding a warm welcome to a few pearly whites of her own, I'm waiting with baited breath to see if fate and genetics will deal her a hand similar to my own. Luckily for my little Peach Tree, she is far prettier than her father ever was (if, of course, you can believe such a thing), and her smile (already utterly heartbreaking) is doubtlessly indestructible. Though mademoiselle, if a bit of a dalliance with dental work is needed, you can be sure that Daddy will do like your grandma before him, and turn the troubles with your teeth into fun times you'll never forget. Matriarch Morris and I had an almost-permanent weekly reservation at a well-known high street pizza emporium, and following my orthodontic appointments we regularly imbibed all the ice cream its trademark dessert bar possessed. This admittedly may not have been one of my mother's better parenting ideas, but it certainly meant that the taste my adolescent dental drudgery left in my mouth was sweet rather than bitter.

Here's to making lemonade from life's lemons, and knowing the right time for a little treat – even if a bit of modern moderation might be needed.

Still, broccoli and braces make poor bedfellows, and the promise of a kale smoothie hardly stops tooth extraction from being a hard sell.

All the fun to come, eh? I can't wait to get my teeth into it.