portfolio. Before-and-after photos. My jaw nearly hit my kneecaps. Cigarette-stained kernels were transformed into pearls. Gaps were closed. Teeth that seemed to have chewed iron spikes were suddenly ready for Pepsodent commercials. Lituchy, a slim, pleasant man, greeted me and asked me to smile. Maybe it was all the magazine covers of clients on the walls, but as he looked at my teeth from different angles, he seemed more fashion photographer than dentist. "You're a perfect candidate," he said. Insult or compliment, I beamed.

The procedure was simple. Four appointments. Two hours apiece. He'd grind off a half millimeter of enamel, take impressions and send them to a lab with instructions so that a technician could craft thin porcelain veneers. Bond the veneers to the outside of the shaved teeth. In less than two weeks, I'd have a handsome smile. Not a blinding-in-the-lights movie-star smile but a realistic one that, Lituchy said, "people will believe is yours." The work would be virtually painless. He'd administer novocaine and—get this—a reflexologist would massage my feet while Lituchy worked. No, he couldn't guarantee the veneers would last a lifetime. They've been applied only in the past fifteen years. But the porcelain used is almost as strong as ordinary teeth, and it doesn't stain. The cost: $1,000 for each tooth. There was no novocaine for that.

Dizzy, I stepped past a photo of veneer-smiling Ben Vereen, out of Lowenberg & Lituchy, and wandered into my office. "Are you crazy?" one of my coworkers said. "Your teeth are