Sticky Wicket
1
Journal of Cell Science
An occasional column, in which
Mole, Caveman and other
troglodytes involved in cell science
emerge to share their views on
various aspects of life-science
research. Messages for Caveman
and other contributors can be left at
[email protected].
Any correspondence may be
published in forthcoming issues.
Dress code
White coat, check. Goggles, check.
Rubber gloves, check. Tissue culture
plate, x-ray film, pipette, check, check,
check. Alright, Mr DeMille, I’m ready
for my close-up.
It’s all my own stupid fault, really. I was
caught up in the adrenaline rush of the
moment, having just had a nice piece of
research accepted in a rather good
journal. And when our institution put out
a press release on the work, the local
news sent over a photographer. Me!
Going to be featured on page 37 of the
second section of the Palookaville Daily
Herald on a Tuesday-slow-news-day –
with a heading that will probably run,
“Local Scientist Uses Molecules to Cure
All Known Diseases”, and the disclaimer
in the last paragraph quoting me as
saying, “This may take a while”, and a
picture of me, dressed as a scientist.
As a rule, and one that I offer as a pearl
of advice, I never talk to reporters. I used
to, but not any more. It all happened a
few years ago, when a reporter who was
writing an article for a very prominent
newspaper (one I read every day), asked
me to take some time to explain the field
that is near and dear to my heart. After
two hours of in-depth discussion, he
casually asked me about other scientists
in my field and when one of them would
win the “N” prize. I told him that there
was one friend who should (and
subsequently did). He then asked about
another friend, Dr Stoat. A few days
later I read the article over breakfast and
sprayed coffee (in homage to classic TV
comedy). The story concerned only my
friend Stoat, and how sharp his teeth are,
how early he gets up in the morning, and
how very terrific he is. And there was
the quote from me, saying, “Oh there are
other researchers who are more
2
Journal of Cell Science 120 (1)
deserving
of
such
prestigious
recognition.” I did promptly clear the air
with my friend, but Mrs Stoat still won’t
talk to me.
No, I don’t talk to reporters. When they
call, I ask them to email me a list of
questions, which I answer in writing,
and keep a copy for myself. I’ve noticed
that it also helps them in getting the
story right.
Journal of Cell Science
But that isn’t what I wanted to talk
about. I want to talk about lab coats.
The ubiquitous white coat is in the
public’s view the uniform of the
scientist, a view that is ever perpetuated
by news photos, television, movies and
the like. Every biography of every
scientist I have read includes at least one
photo (usually many) of our hero
wearing a white lab coat, studiously
looking into a microscope, or holding a
Petri dish to the sun – or, for the more
modern scientist, a blot. It says,
“Scientist.” Whenever I meet someone
new, and by “someone” and “new” I
mean a non-scientist, it is inevitable that
I’ll be told that I don’t look like a
researcher. Well, I don’t. Unless, of
course, I’m wearing a lab coat to the
party.
So it comes as a surprise to folks who
aren’t scientists when they visit the lab
that they see real, working scientists
wearing ordinary clothes, even at the
bench. Look around. How many lab
coats do you see? Sure, we wear them
when we’re working with something
that is potentially hazardous (always)
and we also wear protective eye-wear
and good, solid shoes. But so do
mechanics. Lab coats are for getting
dirty, not for dressing up. In fact, I have
to emphasize that no lab coats should
ever be worn outside of the lab,
especially in the coffee room or at lunch
– ever. That would be stupid, right?
So, what do scientists really look like?
Once upon a time, way way back when
I was just a mole-let, the senior scientists
at professional meetings dressed in
tweed jackets with patches on the
elbows or like business people, with
suits and ties and button-down shirts –
even the male scientists. But that all
changed with the rise of molecular
biology.
In the 1970s and early ’80s, a new breed
appeared. Young, hip, and doing work
that was changing everything, we were
the DNA cowboys, and our uniform was
old torn jeans and sneakers (some of you
call them trainers I think, but we wore
them because they were comfy, and
cool. The whole DNA cowboy look was
all about cool. Shorts and an old T-shirt
became perfectly appropriate on the
plenary platform of the largest meeting,
provided that the work was cutting edge.
A DNA cowboy who wore a suit wasn’t
cool and, hence, the work probably
wasn’t cool either.
look like movie stars, and some who
look like street people. They are
distinctive, and I can always spot them.
One scientific editor I know wears a
distinctive bandana on his neck, and it
looks great. I’ve even seen a “Mole” Tshirt, which is the height of fashion, but
no you won’t catch me wearing it (I’m
not that easy).
The change didn’t come all at once,
though. I was once asked to give a ‘State
of the Art’ lecture at a large clinical
meeting, and I was informed afterwards
that the president of the society had
summarily banned me from ever
speaking to them again, as I was not
appropriately dressed. He’d been
outraged when my slovenly appearance
was projected onto huge screens in the
enormous hall, although, if I’m honest,
I felt like a rock star. (They did have me
come back and do another one, as soon
as he wasn’t president any more).
And when you have to wear protective
gear, (and you do have to) let’s show
some individuality. If you want to dye
your lab coat red, or green, or tie-dye, or
plaid, do it. Hey, it’s your lab coat.
(Okay, not plaid please, that’s just
tacky). And if you like white, that’s fine
too.
It was a fad, of course, and like all fads,
it passed. Now pretty much anything
goes. But that doesn’t mean you don’t
have to think about it. Here’s why.
I received a valuable bit of advice from
one of my professors, way back in
graduate school, when I asked him about
the bright red hat that he wore at
meetings (and never anywhere else). He
told me that the trick was to be
recognizable. Anyone who came to a
meeting could instantly spot him, even
if they didn’t know what he looked like,
because he was the guy in the bright red
hat. He told me that I should have a
trademark look, but warned me that if I
went for a bright colored hat, he’d fail
me on my thesis. So I took his advice,
and now I don’t even have to remember
to wear my name badge. (I won’t tell
you what I wear, but if you see me, you
probably already know me, even if we
haven’t met).
I know scientists who always wear the
best suits (yes, that’s different now, it
can be cool), or look like criminals,
some who have remarkably long hair, or
very short hair, or no hair. Some who
Not everyone will do this, of course, and
neither should you, if it makes you
uncomfortable. But if you like this sort
of ‘standing out in the crowd’, do it. It
doesn’t hurt.
But here’s the main thing: scientists look
like everyone else. And we should.
Because our endeavor, this doing of
science, is a fundamentally human
activity. We, like everyone else, wonder
about the universe we live in. We just do
it for a living. We know that there is a
recognized problem that school children
are not learning science, and maybe that
has something to do with a perception
that science is sterile and clean. Like a
white lab coat.
We know that science is cool. Most
everyone else knows that too. I’d much
rather see newspaper photos of scientists
looking like people who do something
for a living that they love, that excites
them and that makes other people
excited, than staged pictures of lab
monkeys dressing for a part in a uniform
that isn’t a uniform. We’re not uniform.
So I’ve put away the goggles and the
white coat, and I won’t pose with the
vials of colored liquid. If you want to
snap my photo, go ahead, but I’m not
dressing up.
I look like a scientist, because I am one.
And if that’s news, well, good.
Mole
Journal of Cell Science 120, 1-2
Published by The Company of Biologists 2007
doi:10.1242/jcs.03246