To bleach his own

In the annals of human self-consciousness run amuck, this isn't exactly a new development. Cro-Magnons would apparently chew on sticks to protect their pearly whites after, say, a hearty snack of raw wild boar tendons. In the 1800s the gentry class had their teeth doused in various enamel-dissolving acids. Being supremely clean and shiny has, in other words, always been a way for us humans to remind ourselves of our supremacy over the rest of the animal kingdom. (And, interestingly, health is not as important as the perception of health: The FDA has approved almost none of these magic potions, and very little independent health research on the safety of tooth whiteners exists.)

Still, the phenomenon's current incarnation doesn't quite seem like a natural step in the evolutionary development of what I believe scientists call the Irrationally Insecure Gene. Rather, it's a media-created fad, like those gaudy bracelets that are slapped tight around your wrist, or hypercolor T-shirts. What's next? Whitening mirrors, whitening ground beef, vitamin water infused with whitening extract? Starbucks will introduce whitening coffee; Elmer's, a whitening tooth enamel that, in a scandal that'll grip the gleaming world, will be revealed to be nothing more than its classic glue! What started out as a fine little addition to the national morning hygiene routine has, lately, gone a little berserk.

And the reason is simple.

Toothpaste manufacturers have finally figured out a way to push their unsexy products using sex. When tooth whitening started to pick up speed -- thanks to the marketing gurus at Rembrandt, who discovered that you could triple the price of toothpaste if you used a grave font and printed the word "whitening" on the tube -- the product was always packaged seriously, soberly. It looked like medicine. Something for people with something wrong with them: chronic smokers, coffee fiends, winos, old folks still telling themselves they didn't need dentures.

Not anymore. "Get twice the satisfaction in bed," reads one of the print ads that Crest, the current leader of the movement, uses to promote its Night Effects, a nail-polish-like substance you apply to your teeth before turning out the lights. In another, a sultry blonde wearing what appear to be black panties lies in bed with a giddy, yes-I-just-got-some grin on her face. "Wake up with a whole new reason to smile," we are told. In a TV spot for the company's Whitestrips Premium -- a kind of bleaching Band-Aid -- we watch a foursome of women who look like "Sex and the City" extras have a lunchtime debate about why one of the gang looks so damn happy. "OK, who is he?" one demands, gazing haughtily at her friend as if she's strolled into the restaurant bowlegged, it's that obvious. "Trust me," the grinning gal replies, "there's no guy." Her comrades are unfazed. "You're in love," another chimes in. "Look at that smile!" But, alas, a voiceover comes along to set things straight: "It's not love -- it's new Crest Whitestrips Premium."

Hell, if that's the case, why hold back? Here's an idea for future spots, free of charge: Crest Whitestrips Premium -- the vibrator of oral hygiene!

Next Page: The unfortunate result of when white becomes ... whiter

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