Anas Sarwar, Nicola Sturgeon and the politics of missing teeth

“Politicians, say cheese.” Except, perhaps, the ones with the missing teeth.

Does having a missing tooth reduce your chances of becoming First Minister? It sounds absurd. It shouldn’t matter. And yet, instinctively, it feels like it might.

Today, Anas Sarwar told me that if he had a missing front tooth this may deplete his chances of becoming Scotland's next First Minister.

I think the plummeting polls for Labour and the perception of his party down South might be doing that for him, tooth or no tooth, but it raises an interesting point; how our politicians look clearly cuts through to voters.

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It was not meant to be the takeaway from a campaign visit in Glasgow. Anas Sarwar was there talking about dentistry, inequality and access to NHS treatment; a return, briefly, to his former profession. Did you know he was a dentist? Of course you do. That fact is mentioned almost as often as Keir Starmer’s father being a toolmaker.

But something else cut through.

Speaking to journalists, Mr Sarwar said: “The reality is Nicola Sturgeon, when she made that change, if she had a missing front tooth, she wouldn't have been First Minister.”

It is a throwaway line, half-joke, half-point - but it lands because it contains an uncomfortable truth. Yes, it's about whether you trust someone who doesn't seem to be coming from a credible position (in his eyes), but it's also about appearances.

The discussion was about orthodontics. Mr Sarwar had been criticising changes by the SNP to eligibility criteria and what he described as a “partial privatisation” of treatment. But the point slipped quickly beyond policy.

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“Someone's oral health, someone's visual appearance does impact on their confidence,” he said. “It does impact their accessibility to skill, it does impact on their broader life.”

And just like that, the conversation shifted - from dentistry to something much broader: how we see people, how they see themselves and, in politics, what that means for their chances with the electorate.

Because we know this is true. Or at least we recognise it when it is said out loud.

Appearance matters. It shapes how seriously people are taken, how credible they appear, how much authority they are assumed to have. It is not fair. But it is real.

And nowhere is that tension more exposed than in politics.

We tell ourselves that voters choose based on policies, track records, competing visions for the future.

But politics is also a visual medium. Leaders are photographed, clipped, shared, dissected.

Does a leader look confident? Do they look competent? And, fundamentally, do you like how they look?

Before politicians have even uttered a word, a voter may have already decided what they think about them and how they will vote in this election on Thursday.

This is universally understood.

In her memoir, Nicola Sturgeon writes about working with a stylist as she rose within the ranks to become the SNP leader. It was a strategy to freshen up her image. An acknowledgement that presentation shapes perception.

We say appearance should not matter. A missing tooth has no bearing on someone’s ability to govern. Neither does an ill-fitting suit, a tired expression, or any of the countless visual cues we instinctively read into.

Yet, I have seen so many commentators reach for a quip on a politician's physical appearance before they even remark on their policies. It happens to hook the reader in - it is a means of saying 'We see what you're seeing and we are relatable!'

But this creates a quiet distortion. Because if success in politics depends, even partly, on looking the part, then it is not purely about merit.

And those expectations are not neutral. They are shaped by class, by access, by time, and money. Presentation can be coached, styled, refined - but not equally.

On the campaign trail, this plays out in small, revealing ways.

On the banks of Loch Lomond last week, Ross Greer was making an argument about proposing a yacht tax after Malcolm Offord listed his wealth during a leaders’ debate.

But much of the online reaction was not about tax policy or inequality.

It was about how baggy his wetsuit was on him whilst out wild swimming.

It is trivial. But it is also instructive. Even when politicians are discussing potential policy, attention drifts to surface.

That is why Mr Sarwar’s “missing tooth” line resonates. Not because it is literally about dentistry, but because it exposes the gap between what we believe politics should be and how it actually operates.

When asked whether he himself could succeed politically with a missing tooth, his answer was honest: “I would certainly try, but whether I would win, I'm not sure.”

The question is not whether appearances matter. They clearly do.

The question is why do we, at times, let appearances matter more than policy.