I graduated for the fourth, and last, time, in 1978, from residency, and prepared to enter the Real World. We moved from LA to Utah. After a winter skiing every day in the local Wasatch mountains, I undertook a search for a real job. As a Doctor. I did not have the self-confidence meeting the older physicians who would judge and employ me to present myself looking like a rock star, so I reluctantly went back to imitating a TV news presenter. My neck re-appeared, exposed to the searing summer sun, and began to itch. We married in August, and I moved to the pacific Northwest.
“You’re so young! How can you be a doctor already?” I heard more than once from patients in my office. Keeping my hair above my ears provided a shot of confidence that I wasn’t a fraud, a callow youth without skills, knowledge or experience, undeserving of respect or trust. The arrival of first one, then another child reinforced my inner need to appear more mature. Even if I didn’t always feel like a parent, I could at least look the part.
Soon, the other physicians in my 1000-member medical group began to look to me to help lead and guide our fortunes. I met with CEOs and politicians, journalists both print and video, traveling across the country to represent our group as health care reform and competition buffeted our lives. This tripartite coalition conspired to reinforce my monthly visits to the barber. Cheryl’s golden locks retreated into a bob as our third baby entered our home. Our hippie days faded, forgotten under the weight of Responsibility. By 1990, I’d advanced to the top leadership position in the health care organization I served. Seeing patients once or twice a month became a hobby, not a profession. Grey hairs appeared first on my face, then temples, just when I no longer needed their imprimatur of my medical wisdom. Seven years at the top of the heap turned my head from golden brown, to deep brunette, increasingly salted with signs of age.