Testimonials

Testimonial by Judit Mecseki from London

I have had absolutely devastating dental experiences in the last two decades of my life.
These include losing my consciousness from every single anaesthetic injection used in dental treatments as well as being confronted with negligence that have resulted in developing a strong dental phobia.
My fear of experiencing extremely high level of anxiety over and over again increased by undergoing numerous painful and, in many cases, repeatedly faulty dental procedures.
My first visit to The Mermaid Dental Practice was the key breakthrough to deal with my phobic issues and eventually, as more visits followed, to forget about it completely.
I do thank, a million times over, to Dr Hans Lock for his attentive and exceptionally proficient approach to solve my dental problems.
Those who struggle with dental phobias should pay a visit to The Mermaid Dental Practice without delay.
They will encounter an utterly warm welcome in a peaceful environment with calming music in the background. They will be given plenty of undivided attention, as unhurriedly as possible, and their treatment will be entirely painless, providing total satisfaction.
Judit Mecseki

Testimonial by Laura Garrett from London

Having been a successful fashion and beauty model for the past 10 years involving high profile, worldwide advertising campaigns, I found that I was missing out on further success due to imperfections with my teeth when smiling.I wanted to get rid of the flaws in my smile but I was worried about having an unnatural finish. I was recommended to cosmetic London dentist Dr Hans Lock to carry out the dental work I needed and from the initial consultation found his approach and ideas really appealing.

The whole process was professional, timely and extremely friendly - I felt very comfortable throughout. The standard of work was exceptional and I am very pleased with the end result. My confidence at castings has improved as a result and I am already booking more commercial work involving smiling. I would be quick to recommend Dr Hans Lock to anybody.

Laura Garrett, professional fashion and beauty model.

Testimonial by Tim Heymans from London

Growing up in the Netherlands in the 1970's dental-care was never considered a luxury but a necessity. The parental ethos in those days was; that it is important to look after your teeth and this was part of ones upbringing. You were recommended to brush after each meal and I remember in primary school we all had our own toilet-kit with tooth brush.

I clearly remember the black and white television-commercials and the slogans on bill-boards which read, Apples Are the New Healthy Candy For Your Teeth. It was normal fashion that each household registered with a local dentist.

Dentist-consultations and denture-maintainance were subsidised by the gouverment. No matter what economic class you from there was no reason to have bad teeth. It was normal practice to visit your family detist twice a year. On top, twice a year the school-dentist would see you. The big dental bus would arrive at the school and we would be competative on who had lesser fillings.

Growing up it was normal to see a dentist almost 4 times a year. Thumb sucking made that my teeth developed abnormal and caused an overbite. At the age of 12 I got braces and a year later I got perfect straight white and healthy teeth. Once (late adolencence) my wisdom-teeth started to bother me I was advised to get them all four out as I was told later on they might start to cause infections. Other than this I had healthy teeth and had never had a serious problem.

At this point I left home with perfect healthy teeth. I went travelling and I finaly arrived and settled in London, England and together with opening a bankaccount I was looking to register with a dentist. I asked my new English friends to be referred. I found a dentist and got very unlucky it left me traumatised and with one tooth less and a lot of sterling lighter. I stopped seeing dentists all together and developed a fear. My experience here was different to my experience back home.

I believe that people with bad teeth might be in denial and don't want to talk about their fear. This is what happened to me. It was only since I opened my mouth and was ready to start doing research when a good friend who himself once had fear to go to the dentist recommended me to visit the Mermaid Dental Clinic which I did.

This was a life changing experience. The fact that I was taken serious, listened to and the gentle and professional treatment make that today my teeth are healthy again and that from now on I'll visit my dentist again twice a year like I was used to do years ago.

Tim Heymans

Testimonial by Maya

Dr Hans Lock - a dentiste extraordinaire

Last week, I had a dental mishap. I tried hard not to care, I did, but by the fourth day I had to face facts: this level of snaggle-toothery was just too much to handle, even for me and my admittedly questionable sense of aesthetic acceptability. Something had to be done. I needed to find a dentist.

Because I currently have no official purpose here in London, I am not covered by the National Health Services thingie. I searched online for ‘private dentists’ nearby; I live pretty centrally, so I set up an appointment in the West End. I knew full well that it would be pricier than something farther out, but my saintly mother sent me some money to splurge a little for Christmas, and I decided what I really wanted from Santa this year was the absence of a long, tooth-themed trek involving maps and the Tube.

The night before the fated dentist’s appointment, people came over, things got out of hand, and a very special cake was baked. A cake that made us all very very happy, for about six to eight hours. Except for one of us, who passed out at hour four.

I woke up the next morning feeling pretty out of it. I assumed this was due to the cakey festivities. I thought to myself, Hey, You know what might clear this right up? Yes! Exactly! More Cake! That is exactly right. Gee Golly Whiz, I’m sure glad I’m so smart!

And like some sort of stoner Cosby child, I proceeded to have a slice of cake for breakfast.

Two hours later, running late and unable to navigate the buses, I climbed into a taxi. A TAXI. In LONDON. Cabs here are unthinkable under all but the most dire circumstances because of sheer cost, so this should give you an idea of the state I was in. Fifteen minutes of luxurious sitting went by, and then BAM! I found myself wandering, confused, up and down an incredibly… ‘posh’ street (no other word does it justice). I vaguely remembered a street number; I felt in my bones that I should find it. I found it. It didn’t look right. I walked around some more and smoked a cigarette, but failed to come up with a magical new plan. I ended up back at the same spot. It appeared to be a private residence, with no signage whatsoever. Just a single gold-plated doorbell.

I called up my one hardworking, employed friend (the only friend I knew would be awake and near a computer at the ungodly hour of one p.m.) and had her look up the phone number and double check the address. I was apparently in the right place. I called them to confirm.

“Hello,” they said.
“Do you not have any signage?” I demanded.
“Signage?” the polite, clipped, British lady-voice repeated quizzically.
“Signage.” I confirmed, undaunted, not even the tiniest bit embarrassed, confident in the knowledge that this is, indeed, a real word. (It is. I double checked when I got home.)
Silence.
“Some sort of sign to indicate your place of business?” I tried.
“Oh. No, I’m afraid we don’t.”
“Right. So. I’m having some trouble locating you. What do you advise that I do?”
“Well, it’s 7 Wimpole Street. You can ring the bell when you get here.”
“The bell,” I said, thoughtfully.
“Yes, the bell,” she repeated.
“The GOLD bell?” I demanded.
“Yes. That would be the one,” she replied, infuriatingly logical and calm.
“Okay.” I said. I rang the bell.

The woman who came to the door I can only describe as a kind of older, more squat Mary Poppins, as reinterpreted by the good people at Yves Saint Laurent. I’m talking about the distinctly scary, no-nonsense, Mr. Banks-intimidating, penquin-taming Dame Poppins, not the rosy cheeks and singing one. I have never seen a more put together receptionist/doorperson.

After a long, awkward interlude during which I gave an unnecessarily detailed, rambling explanation establishing my right to be there, she ushered me into the waiting room. It was quite possibly THE nicest waiting room on the planet. Wood panelling abounded. There were walls of books with matching leather covers, titles embossed in 24k gold (probably). There were leather, high-backed chairs, and a huge leather couch. Lots of leather, really. And a fire. And, of course, me. Me, stupidly high, in full-on hulking, fro-haired, snaggle-toothed glory, wearing the same jeans I’d been wearing all week and unzipping my ancient, smelly, oversized, visibly torn ‘SeanJohn’ winter jacket (my mother bought it for me; she has never heard of Puff Daddy and I love her, so I wear it with pride).

I felt woozy. I sat down.

The doorbell rang. I heard La Poppins get up and answer it. I heard polite, muted murmurings. An ivory-haired, impeccably dressed old man, probably around seventy-five, turned the corner and came into the waiting room. He was accompanied by a beautiful, dignified, slightly younger woman (in her fifties, I would say) in a gorgeous tweed outfit and pearls. They spoke to each other exclusively in Russian. She lovingly adjusted his tie. They studiously ignored me as I sat, incredibly stoned and starting to feel a bit queasy, watching them intently from the corner. I became convinced that he was a retired Russian oil-baron and she his classy long-term mistress. I decided he’d probably had dealings with the mafia in his time. Perhaps he had had people killed, back in the day. Perhaps he would have me killed, for ruining his mojo with my fro and my SeanJohn. Perhaps I should make a run for it.

But what if I wasn’t fast enough? I’m not particularly nimble. What if he caught me?

Luckily, a nurse came to collect me before I actually worked myself into enough of a frenzy to run away or accuse anyone of plotting to kill me. She was a remarkably cheerful, chatty young woman, pretty and fresh-faced and rosy — in fact, she and the receptionist together would have combined to cover all the nuances of Julie Andrews. She was a temp, she told me. Was it quite cold outside? We would have to go up four flights of stairs, but Oh, weren’t these old buildings beautiful? Wheezing and spaced out, I made a valiant attempt at small talk through all four flights. She led me into a room.

I don’t know if any of you have seen the 1988 Daniel Day-Lewis, Juliette Binoche adaptation of Unbearable Lightness of Being, but the room I walked into was straight out of the Prague hospital where Day-Lewis (or Tomas, for those who have read the book but not seen the movie) worked. It was huge, airy, high-ceilinged, and absolutely bare. It felt like our voices should be echoing. Tucked in one corner were an old fashioned sink and a small, serious looking cabinet. And right smack in the middle of all that empty space, all alone: a single turquoise-upholstered dentist’s chair. Standing at the door, transfixed by the chair, I realized I was shaking the hand of a tall, blonde  man in a white lab coat. His name was Hans. Hans Lock.

Hans is Danish, and when I told Hans my name, Hans got very excited and said something to me in very fast Danish, because he thought I might be Danish, because apparently, Maya is a very common name in Denmark. Hans appeared a bit sad when I was forced to admit no, not Danish, sorry, and I, too, was saddened by the whole affair. I bemoaned my non-Danish roots. Still, we rallied, and over the next half hour, Hans checked and cleaned my teeth, told me my fears of late-stage gingivitis were largely unfounded, and promised to fix my snaggle tooth when he got back from his holiday trip in January. Dazed, I thanked Hans and made my way out of the building.

At no point did anyone yell at me for not getting regular dental check-ups or taking better care of my teeth. At no point did Hans try to make me feel guilty for smoking or berate me for not brushing after lunch as well as breakfast and dinner. I’d just been to the dentist, and no one had tried to scare me with apocalyptic predictions of toothlessness by age thirty unless I changed my thoughtless ways. The only thing Hans had said that wasn’t outright congratulatory was a mild “you could floss more,” and even that had been presented as a kind of friendly offering, take it or leave it, in case I really wanted a little somethinsomethin to spice up my oral hygiene routine.

I was filled with joy. I decided that Hans is a dentiste extraordinaire, and that I loved Mary Poppins in all her incarnations. The cake in my belly kicked into overdrive. I bid Reception Poppins adieu with a knowing, familiar nod of the head, and stepped out into the street with a light heart: Russian mafia and SeanJohn be damned, it was a beautiful day.

It wasn’t until half a block later that I realized I had no clue where, in fact, I was.

Or how to get home.

Maya