When I was a kid, most of my adult teeth didn't come in underneath the baby teeth like they were supposed to. No, they came in behind or in front, because my body apparently hates me. This led to sharkmouth.
Or it would've, had my parents not taken me to a local dentist to get the baby teeth pulled. It's important to note that this particular dentist was one of the only ones in town who would work on little kids, so there wasn't a lot of choice at the time. You see, this dentist, while he would work on children, wasn't exactly very nice. His bedside manner was terrible.
He also didn't appear to believe in using enough novocain for things like teeth pulling. Or in letting it sit long enough to actually work. Or in shooting it anywhere other than the back of the mouth even when the teeth being pulled were front ones. Over the period of two years, he pulled seven of my baby teeth.
I felt every single one as if there'd been no painkillers at all. Every crunch of the pliers as he grabbed the teeth. The vicious twist. The hard yank. And having him do it again on the ones that didn't want to come out on the first try.
I credit him with my mouth- and tooth-related anxiety and aversion to dentists. I can still remember how it felt. Is it any wonder that I was a sobbing, whimpering, writhing mess of a patient to work on in subsequent years? It's still difficult to sit still for any dental work.
I'm vindicated, though. He lost his license a few years later.