What happens when you get Turkey teeth: Mine were filed to stumps and I had a gum transplant, reveals LIZ JONES. Here’s the unsparing truth about how much it costs, what happens… and what they’re like two months later

Predictably, I first heard the term ‘Turkey teeth’ while watching Love Island. The girls were discussing the boys.

‘I think he has Turkey teeth,’ one said sagely, and I remember thinking: ‘Do birds have teeth? Don’t turkeys have beaks?’

Soon, of course, I learned that she was talking about the trend for acquiring a set of ultra-bright pearly whites in Istanbul, at a fraction of the price they might cost in the UK.

Turkey’s dental prowess is the reason that these days we rarely see a stained or wonky tooth on British reality TV, in public life, or inside the mouths of so many members of Instagram-addicted Gen Z.

Remember Elvis Presley was shocked by The Beatles’ teeth on their 1965 US tour, wondering why on earth they didn’t get them fixed. These days, to glimpse a discoloured or misplaced tooth on screen or on stage is as rare as spotting a snow leopard.

That comedians have been making fun of The White Lotus star Aimee Lou Wood’s gappy teeth shows how far we have come, for good or evil, from Pattie Boyd, the gap-toothed muse of rock stars, with her delightful diastema – the technical term – and resultant lisp which sold a million packets of Thmiths Thcrisps in the 1960s.

When my second teeth came through, they were overcrowded and crooked, which meant I spent my childhood with one hand flying to my mouth if called on to speak or moved to giggle. On regular dentist visits, I always received a filling – unsurprising, as I was weaned on Walnut Whips – which no one questioned: it was normal.

My parents never once showed me how to brush my teeth, there was no such thing as floss or electric toothbrushes. (I was thrilled, on my first visit to the US in the early 1980s, to discover Plax, a mouthwash to battle plaque.)

Liz Jones travelled to Turkey to get treatment at a dental clinic in Istanbul

My mum’s teeth, ravaged by poor nutrition in the war years coupled with the fact that she had seven children, were pulled out when she was in her mid-40s: again, not unusual. She spent the rest of her days a toothless crone, enduring ill-fitting dentures that clicked as she spoke.

When I was 11, my mum marched me to an orthodontist (on the NHS, of course; this was the 1960s). Four teeth were extracted and I was fitted with braces. The braces on my lower jaw were cemented in place, while I was given a plastic brace with wicked-looking wires for my top teeth.

On the pavement outside the dentist, I collapsed to the kerb in a dead faint. I thought my life was over. The only respite was that I could remove the top brace overnight, although small hooks had been drilled into my top teeth, over which I stretched teeny plastic bands to pull my teeth apart.

Suffice to say, over the course of many years my smile became straighter, although the food which stuck between the wires meant no boy would ever dream of kissing me.

The respite didn’t last long. Until my 30s I was anorexic, subsisting on sugar-free fizzy drinks and apples, both of which corroded the enamel, rendering my teeth grey and fragile.

When I was 40, by then a magazine editor, I’d begun to hear about veneers. My Harley Street dentist had Martine McCutcheon and the future Princess of Wales as patients, and recommended I spend £10,000 on having my smile renovated.

My front teeth, top and bottom, were drilled to stumps, then veneers glued on top. They looked perfect, though turned green after a curry. At the time, I was infuriated by a newspaper running a story on my teeth, saying I was profligate, when they were only the price of an ordinary car.

But now, 25 years later, my teeth are past their sell-by date. They are chipped and stained. I have stopped smiling in photos, the hand is back in front of my mouth.

BEFORE: Dr Özdemir assures Liz that she won’t go home looking like Rylan Clark, the X Factor contestant-turned-TV presenter renowned for his gleaming gnashers

I’d had the mercury fillings replaced over the years, but the white replacements are now discoloured. I need gnashers that match the rest of me, honed as I am by Botox and Pilates.

And so I travel to Istanbul, to the Dentakay clinic, run by Dr Gülay Akay. She has six clinics in Turkey, one in Mexico (convenient for Hollywood stars), one in Saudi and a consulting office in London, where a CT scan helps dentists in Turkey plan treatments and predict cost. Named Best Dental Clinic in Europe in 2022, it now employs more than 60 dentists and treated 15,000 patients in 2024 in Turkey alone.

Why is Turkey synonymous with teeth? First, the lack of NHS dentists in the UK.

Remember Valerie Holsworth, the pensioner who back in 2005 told Tony Blair she had to extract seven of her own teeth because she couldn’t get an appointment? Since then, dentistry has become even worse: in some areas, only 30 per cent of English adults have seen a dentist in the last two years.

Private dentists are beyond the means of most. My complete new set of teeth and renovated gums in Turkey will cost just under £7,000, while the bill in Harley Street would be around £30,000. (An implant at Dentakay costs £800; in Harley Street, that figure hovers around £2,000.)

The amount of new technology at Dentakay, plus the training given at its academy, is staggering, and no dentist joins without at least six years’ experience.

But this doesn’t stop the snobby jibes, the widespread assumption that all ‘Turkey teeth’ are too white, too fake-looking, a painful mistake that will probably need corrective treatment back home.

Horror stories abound on social media, to be fair. Yet Dr Akay is enraged that Turkish dentists have such a bad name in the UK.

The good news is that looking after our teeth has become another aspect of self-care, perhaps eliminating the need for drastic measures altogether.

Brushing teeth is no longer a chore, to be got through as swiftly as possible, but a meditation. Mintel reports that, in 2023, the oral health market jumped by almost 9 per cent from 2022, with retail sales reaching more than £1 billion.

I find it comforting that every dentist I meet in Istanbul is female and smiley. Dr Ayça Özdemir and Dr Cansın Çelebi Küccük examine my teeth, and a 3D X-ray, or tomography, is taken of my skull.

Instead of enduring the horrible gunk to make a mould of my teeth, an AI-assisted probe takes a gentle journey round my mouth, creating a thousandth of a millimetre virtual impression of my teeth and gums, which I am then shown on screen.

Cosmetic dentistry is not for the faint-hearted. I stare at the image in horror. My lower incisors are very long in the tooth, due to age and over-zealous brushing.

I can see dark seams and fillings. How did I ever go out, looking like this? Let alone smile at a man in daylight? I’m ashamed, but the shock means no matter the injections, the drilling and the scraping to come, you know it will be worth the pain. I am put up in a hotel near the clinic, as traffic in Istanbul is horrendous, but it’s a ‘dry’ hotel, which dismays me somewhat, as the next few days are very difficult indeed.

On day one, after the X-rays and virtual mould, I am given a treatment plan. My teeth are now too thin for veneers, so I’m prescribed 24 crowns.

These are not like the old, porcelain crowns, which can discolour and reveal those black seams. The new ones are made of zirconium, chosen for its durability and natural look. I’m given a colour chart to choose from; it’s like browsing at Farrow & Ball.

‘Most people go for options one or two, which are too fake,’ Dr Özdemir tells me. ‘I suggest three, which is more natural.’

She assures me I won’t go home looking like Rylan Clark, the X Factor contestant-turned-TV presenter renowned for his gleaming gnashers.

I had thought there was no hope for my low-slung gums, but miraculously the surgeon, Dr Günay Gasımlı, tells me she will perform a transplant on my penultimate day (I’m in Turkey for eight days in total).

After performing a gingivectomy – where gums are cut with a scalpel to make them even and aesthetically pleasing – she will extract flesh from the roof of the mouth and, after cleaning my exposed roots, sew the flesh in place. There will be stitches, a plaster on the roof of my mouth covering the extraction site, and a return visit in six weeks for the stitches to be removed and the wounds checked.

I must not use an electric brush on my new gums, just a manual brush, softly stroking upwards, away from the gum line.

On day two, all of my teeth are drilled to tiny stumps and every filling is removed. I try to stop my tongue from sliding over them.

During a loo break – the drilling takes almost five hours – a mask is hooked over my ears so I don’t glimpse the stumps in the mirror and faint in horror. A temporary, plastic set of teeth is placed on the stumps until my return the next day; I become very familiar with Mercimek Çorbası, the traditional lentil soup.

The virtual impressions are sent to the Dentakay laboratory, where technicians will make my new teeth.

AFTER: Liz says, ‘I feel as though I own a new outfit: I want to take my new teeth places, show them off, smile and dazzle more’

The next day, I return to have more X-rays and photos taken for the lab guys, and facsimiles of the crowns tried out for size. The poor dentists, wearing masks, struggle to get me to hear ‘open’ and ‘close’, as I’m deaf.

On day five, I arrive to have the new crowns fitted, which is painless and takes barely an hour. The AI probe again takes a tour of my new mouth, and I stare in amazement at the screen. Every tooth is perfect. Like my old teeth, but so much better – and not a childhood, sweet-induced filling in sight.

I almost cry with gratitude when I take a selfie. My teeth resemble those of Meghan Sussex, or even Margot Robbie.

But the worst is yet to come. Saturday, day six, is the day of my surgery. The roof of my mouth is anaesthetised – there have been so many needles, I’m past caring – and small pieces of flesh are cut away with a scalpel.

There is blood; I look like Sly Stallone as Rocky.

Next, the pieces are sewn carefully in place over the exposed roots of my lower teeth, like hitching up a pair of drawers.

I tell the surgeon I’m sorry I’ve been such a baby, and she sympathises: she knows it has been traumatic.

I take a picture. I no longer have teeth that belong to a dead person! The roof of my mouth is sore, but I’m given painkillers, antibiotics and told not to drink alcohol. Chance would be a fine thing…

On day eight, I have a check-up and am given a mouth guard, which slots over my upper teeth, to be worn overnight for three months: it keeps everything stable and stops grinding.

Although my treatment costs are well below that of Harley Street, you do have to factor in flights and hotels, and a return visit should you need gum surgery. I had to return after six weeks.

Although it’s dubbed ‘health tourism’, I was in no fit state to see the sights or enjoy the local food. The political unrest and an earthquake near Istanbul could set any set of teeth chattering.

Now, two-and-a-half months later, completely healed, I find my new teeth have become like an extra pet, needing nurturing. I’m fanatical about cleaning them, using my Waterpik flosser twice daily (it does what it sounds like, and flosses with water, which feels a bit like being waterboarded).

Turkey teeth might seem an indulgence, but a healthy mouth, especially as you age, means better nutrition, and will definitely encourage you to be more sociable.

I feel as though I own a new outfit: I want to take my new teeth places, show them off, smile and dazzle more. I am more confident when talking, and if I ever go on another date with a man, I will not hesitate to smile, rather than requesting a table in the darkest corner.

I can’t help but stare at everyone else’s teeth, too, wondering why they don’t travel to Istanbul. So many men of my age think owning rotten teeth is a badge of honour, or just something we should put up with, but – to be honest – it’s a surefire libido killer.

I think of my mum, condemned to being an old lady in her 40s, ashamed, uncomfortable, unable to eat certain foods, and wish she could have had Turkey teeth.

On the plane home, almost every seat contains a woman who, like me, has had her teeth refurbed, and row after row of men with scalps speckled with the tell-tale red plugs of a hair transplant. And though we are all sore, and definitely poorer, I find it sweet that each passenger has invested in themselves, taken a leap, strived to be their best.

Optimism radiates from every seat. We haven’t given up. I love my new teeth. It’s the best decision I’ve ever made.

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