The clothes make the doctor

A few years ago, I was looking for a new primary-care doctor. I was hoping for someone who was kind, smart, and caring, someone who'd listen with full attention. I didn't care what the doctor looked like—or so I thought, until a woman clicked into the room in stilettos and a tailored expensive-looking suit. This wasn't a case of a low-cut blouse or a thigh-revealing skirt. And yet I felt put off. I felt like a slob. The doctor was nice enough, perhaps a little brusque, or maybe her clothes were brusque, and I didn't end up sticking with her.