I was one of those kids who always had really bad teeth. Like, really bad teeth. The kind of teeth that one’s parents throw boatloads of money at until they pass as suitably straight, white, and homogenous and that then need to be held in place for the rest of one’s life by a messy, misshapen retainer.

But hey, a smile is a curve that sets everything straight. So, from the moment I was choked with the icy touch of thin iron rods on my upper gums in first grade to the very instant that lemon-tasting gunk was forcefully scraped off of my teeth in eighth, I held firm to the belief that that messy, painful contraption was just a steady climb toward my ultimate goal of dental perfection. It’s not like I really had much of a choice anyway, but I toughed it out as best I could. I wanted to make my parents, and the orthodontist, happy.

Cue last Thursday, the day after my 18th birthday, when I had my first orthodontist appointment in upwards of two and a half years. My parents had been concerned in months prior about a steady twisting of my lower incisors, and had decided it would be good to have a quick check up. I obliged, though a tad begrudgingly, and brought along my partially used retainer into that familiar aura of plaster of Paris and nitrous oxide, snuggling into a recliner chair and flashing the doctor’s assistant with an upshot view of my nostrils.

After a mirror clinked around my teeth for a few seconds, I was asked how often I had been wearing my retainer. I recited the very mantra I had been given during my final checkout some years ago, stating robotically “At minimum, once every week.” I had always been a very diligent orthodontic patient, and had even had my braces removed early because I wore my jaw-shifting rubber bands so often. I had never wanted to let my parents and the orthodontist down.

I heard a soft sigh, then a “Hold on a moment,” followed by a squeaking of roller chairs and a brand-new pair of eyes shining over a protective mask.

“I’m afraid your jaw has shifted forward into a minor overbite, probably due to lazy retainer usage…” the lead orthodontist mumbled.

The rest was a bit of a blur. I did, however, make out that, if I ever wanted my teeth to be straight again, I would need to go through a treatment of Invisalign braces, to be worn every hour of every day for five months.

My parents, as can be guessed, were not at all thrilled. Through my barrage of discipline, I kept hearing that same line I had heard too many times before, that they had spent “god-knows-how-many thousands of dollars” on my teeth and wouldn’t give up now. What would be the point of all that time, all that work?

I, naturally, was very defensive, and countered that I actually did use my retainer, and that it was the orthodontist’s fault for not providing me with enough information. Plus, they had made me go through the whole process in the first place.

Frustrated, I barricaded myself in my room for a few hours anddid a bit of angry Internet searching. Braces, as I already knew, had quite a few benefits: they stop tooth-crowding and can help prevent against future dental problems. But the underlying assertion, as I later told my parents over dinner, was that I didn’t really need braces anymore. If my teeth were to be crooked for the rest of my life then I would keep them that way.I was 18 years old, and was thus able to make whatever decision I wanted, I demanded.

And I was met with a slow shrug. And a nod. And that was it. I was content. Completely and entirely content. Not, mind you, because I had made my decision, but because I had finally felt free to do so.

What occurred to me then was that, almost paradoxically, our personal hygiene feels, in our younger years, more like an obligation than a necessity. We consume as many vegetables as we can tolerate so we can proudly declare we ate our required daily serving at our next physician’s appointment. We scrub our teeth every night not because we’re fighting against plaque, but because we don’t want to be reprimanded by the dentist for having yellow teeth. Having reached 18, that “holy grail” of an age in which I was considered an adult in the eyes of the law, I realized that I should have the right to choose whatever course of treatment made me the most secure in myself, not what my doctors and parents thought would be best for me.

No longer was my persistent orthodontic diligence a necessity. No longer did I feel that my personal health was something to strive for in order to make the people in charge of me happy. Every medical decision I made from that moment on was my sole responsibility. And that felt good.

I still haven’t made that decision yet. I’d rather eat a live cockroach than go through the braces experience again, but it’s a relatively small price to pay for the preservation of my personal health. Regardless of what I choose, however, the decision is mine now. My health and my teeth are finally in my own hands.

…though not literally, I hope. That may require some extensive orthodontic work.