Tuesday, July 07, 2009

Paul Collingwood shaving

Days have passed. An embryonic beard is growing: An unwanted fuzz forming like a rampant fungus creeps around the neck and face. Although little facial fur has been accumulated, Paul Collingwood sends himself in on the fifth day down to save his face from another hairy situation.

Plodding forth to the bathroom, he steels himself with his trusty, plastic reusable razor bought from Woolworths. Facing a revelation of orange before him, a rare moment of confidence surges forward, and he twiddles his weapon with an enigmatic flourish.

After picking up the razor from the floor, the former and current England captain begins the task before him: the steady construction of a respectable appearance.

Beginning, as is his habit, from the bottom, he worked over the entire field of play up to the eyebrows. As he takes the vorpal blade in hand, the weight of responsibility and expectation becomes too much.

He struggles early on, losing all semblance of technique. Pressure guides his every fumble. A lesser man would have crumbled at the accidentally hacking away of the bridge of his nose, but the redoubtable Collingwood gritted onwards and upwards. Onwards and upwards.

Throughout the mist of pain and self-doubt, Collingwood found motivation in the peaceful sound of progress: the sink’s echoing plops as it harvested the falling fibers, foam and flesh. He considered pass glories. His daily facial flagellation at his work experience week at Northern Rock. The unexpected electric razor discovered in Australia. The destruction of the Inadvisable Moustache.

After the blood began to clear away, Collingwood began to rebuild his confidence with a series of short, stubby strokes. Slowly revealing the tea-hued pallor beneath the ginger grizzle, as he roughly nurdled away at the persistent bristles.

In the end, as Collingwood stared deeply into the mirrored image of cuts, gore and pus, he reflected on the past three-hours of graft. Oh course, he wasn’t pretty, even his mother admitted that to him, but he was effective and he got the job done. Perhaps he faces the word as less of a man, but a least he's a man. And, at the end of the day, it’s not how, it’s how many useless ginger sproutings you cut away.

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