Open Wide

Moving to Japan has been an adventure in many ways, from navigating grocery stores filled with unfamiliar fish parts to realizing that the garbage sorting system requires an advanced degree. But nothing could have prepared me for my first trip to a Japanese dentist.

Work it, baby!

As an American, I have certain expectations when it comes to dental visits: lots of paperwork, an obligatory 15-minute wait even if I’m on time, and an eventual bill that will make me question my life choices. But Japan? Japan, of course, has its own unique way of doing things.

After checking in at the front desk (which, shockingly, did not involve signing away my firstborn or providing an insurance card), I was led to the exam chair. A friendly hygienist proceeded to place a small washcloth with a circular opening in the middle—to allow access to one's nose and mouth—over my face. This had to be continuously adjusted because, well, let's just say I do not possess yer average Japanese-sized nose or mouth.

Now, I have spent decades in American dental offices with nothing but harsh overhead lighting—pretty sure they use the same wattage bulbs in lighthouses—and the judgmental eyes of a hygienist watching me struggle to keep my mouth open. This tiny towel was…unexpected. Was it for privacy? Drool control? A makeshift superhero mask for people who have dreams of becoming Captain Cavity? Whatever the reason, I embraced it. Much like these jokers. 

Next came the photos. And not the standard X-rays we all know and tolerate. No, no. This was an actual photoshoot. An HD, multi-angle, high-drama photoshoot of my mouth.

A hygienist whipped out what can only be described as a full-sized DSLR camera and began snapping shots of my teeth like they were about to be featured in a glossy fashion magazine. At one point, she even climbed onto a stool to get the perfect aerial angle. I swear I heard her mutter, "Work it, baby," in broken English - which sounded something like, "wāku itto, bebī," - as she adjusted the lighting.

But the pièce de résistance? A second hygienist suddenly appeared wielding plastic mouth spreaders—the kind that look like the jaws of life used to pry accident victims out of a crumpled car. Before I could protest, my mouth was forced open to an extent I didn’t know was possible. I half-expected a camera crew from National Geographic to show up and start narrating the scene: "Here, we see the rare and elusive American undergoing a bizarre ritual in its new habitat."

At this point, I started wondering if I had accidentally booked an appointment at a dental-themed modeling agency. Was my molar about to get a solo spread in "Cavity Couture"? Would I be getting royalties for the inevitable toothpaste ad? The possibilities were endless.

As my appointment wrapped up, I braced for the worst. No one had asked for my dental insurance. No one had handed me an itemized list of confusing charges. This could only mean one thing: I was about to be financially ruined.

Then they handed me the bill.

117 dollars.

For an exam, a cleaning, X-rays, and an impromptu glamour shoot of my teeth.

I stared at the number, convinced there had been a mistake. Back in the States, that’s about what I’d pay in co-pays alone. I was so overwhelmed by the affordability of it all that I briefly considered getting another cleaning just for fun.

All in all, my first visit to a Japanese dentist was a surreal, delightful, and shockingly affordable experience. I left with clean teeth, a sense of financial relief, and possibly a future as a dental model. Would I go back? Absolutely. Especially if they let me buy a copy of my glamour shots for my LinkedIn profile.

Until next time, Japan. Keep surprising me.