Even a cursory glance in the direction of Cullen Crewe is enough to yield the conclusion that he is not native to Japan. No, even if he wished for it, assimilation would be impossible for him to achieve; there is simply too much of a fuss for natives to make out of his obvious dissimilarities, and the man possesses many in comparison to his peers.
The majority can be found in the very foundations of his face, by far the most expressive element of his physical form. His skin tone remains relatively unmarred by his outrageously hectic life, and continues to hold onto a colour slightly darker - a touch tanned, perhaps - compared to the Caucasian norm. Despite this, the thin film of flesh beneath his eyes is as prone to dark circles - born of fatigue, the product of cutting into his sleeping hours for the sake of a few rounds of Halo with friends found overseas - as he is to dressing his bottom-heavy lips in a smile. Thirty-three long years of jesting and jokes have begun to take their toll upon what was once perfectly firm flesh. Whilst he has a good twenty years left before the effects of a long life begin to warp his entire visage, laughter lines have already begun to score the caramel-tinted skin in the corners of his chocolate-coloured eyes, one of many genetic gifts given to him by his father.
His forehead fails to follow the example of his lofty and smooth cheekbones, but hosts a handful of creases instead - what many may refer to as worry lines – which collaborate on a regular basis with his the maturing grooves that sit either side of his nose’s bridge. This collection of contours merely hints at the amount of character his face can host.
His is an extremely animated, honest countenance. Now well into adulthood, Cullen remains incapable of cloaking or biting back his emotions. When worry wrenches at his heart, his brow climbs up his forehead, and ivory-coloured teeth pinch at his lower lip before he can even consider hiding his anxiety behind a poker face; should anger dare to creep up his throat, his square jaw will set itself sternly with a view to keeping any smart remarks behind his teeth and out of earshot, and if mischief is the order of the day, no amount of attempted self-restraint will be capable of wiping the cheeky grin that indicates the Englishman is up to something off of his face. Subtlety is not a concept his countenance has managed to grasp, every expression capable of manifesting is but a few muscle movements away from an absolutely comical extreme, a trait of his that is not lost on acquaintances.
Like many students brandishing their hard-earned degrees, Cullen learnt shortly after graduation that no one wished to employ a shaggy-haired greenhorn; they wished to employ young professionals. After several years of boycotting the barber shop, Cullen was forced to crop the mop of shaggy light auburn-brown hair he had nurtured from the start of Fresher’s week into a far more manicured form. Simple, sensible, and easily maintained as part of his daily routine, his hair sees less attention than his jaw line, save for the fingers which comb their way through the front in the early hours of the morning, leaving what could barely pass as a fringe standing on end for the rest of the day. The aforementioned jaw is seldom free from a field of short, wiry stubble, an indication that the man possesses minimal and patience for the likes of shaving. Personal grooming, it seems, does not rank highly on the man’s list of priorities; it is a concept forgotten for the benefit of work.
The broad neck this head is found decorating attaches to a pair of equally broad and masculine shoulders. Standing at five feet and ten inches in height, Cullen is a man that appears difficult to break; tall enough to make the majority of folks feel safe in his presence. Unfortunately, the man’s musculature is not what it used to be. The work of almost a decade spent dashing around playing fields and tackling rugby players twice his size for the sake of a few points has come undone with just a couple of years’ worth of neglect. These days, the muscles that wrap across his broad chest and form his abdomen have lost a great deal of their original resolve. One particular friend refers to this balance as the ideal equilibrium between muscle and the phenomenon known as ‘squish’, making him an ideal candidate, allegedly, for embraces.
Describing him as such to his face, however, has the same effect on his self-esteem as a sledgehammer has on a ripe watermelon.
He may not have the excessive definition of a body builder, but this means very little in the grand scheme of things. His uniform, practically rectangular torso may not be as pleasing to the eye to some as those with gym-built triangular chests, but the fact that his core’s muscles were built up over the years to protect his spinal cord and vital organs whilst engaging in the trials of full-contact rugby makes him legitimately stronger than the likes of those who work out in gyms and, occasionally, starve themselves in order to stretch their shrinking skin across their frames. His limbs follow the same trend.
By no means structurally comparable to a sack of walnuts, the present definition of key muscles in his arms is enough to indicate that heavy lifting is still part of his day-to-day life. Sitting beneath the flesh of his right bicep is a numerical figure. A pair of broad black outlines form the number eleven, the number on the Rugby shirt he proudly wore all those years ago as a university student, one of his team’s two second row forward players. His is but one tattoo out of seventeen designed in a similar vein, their owners - his former team mates - now scattered across the globe. The hands that attach to his wrists are, quite rightfully, larger than most of his colleagues’. A single, chocolate-colours freckle can be found on the heel of his hand, the only real curiosity to be found on both appendages. Long, but by no means elegant, fingers are often the victims of vicious little paper cuts, their warm touch attributed to the man’s stellar circulation system.
Muscle definition received from sprinting around the rugby pitch as a young man has, for the most part, fled his legs. Thankfully, his thighs and calves have recently found themselves regaining some semblance of their former shape, more likely than not attributed to the man’s penchant for an early morning run; a treat he now indulges in every other day before breakfast. The skin that dresses what was once a pair of unmarred shins is now the home to a fistful of cosmetic divots, bumps, scrapes and scores, which remain visible through the fine hair that swathes his limbs, most visibly from knee to ankle and his wrist to his elbow. In spite of being quite comfortable in his own skin, he does not yet appear to have settled into his new home just yet, evident in his usual fumbles as he attempts to dodge passersby who veer into his path.
He came out of the often cruel process of puberty with size fourteen feet, and a voice one octave lower upon graduating from high school. His accent is an unusual beast to trap and label, a Received Pronunciation accent with a few flaws found in the average Northerner - most noticeably the omission of the letter ‘t’ present in particular words.
The realm of fashion baffles Cullen more than the land of the rising sun could ever hope to. Whilst he openly admires some of his students’ audacity, having passed handfuls of them and their friends in the streets sporting apparel best left hidden until All Hallows Eve - in his opinion - than the common weekend, Cullen was raised by practical parents; taught to favour function over form. While he lacks what could be considered a strict uniform, unlike his students, the dress code imposed upon members of staff has managed to dominate his wardrobe. A slave to his day job, Mister Crewe can be found making the commute to and from the classroom in a button-up dress shirt and what seems to be the bottom half of a black dress suit, a simple ensemble that is finished with the presence of a black tie around his neck with a view to conforming to the rules.
A touch of his personality finds itself on display in spite of the oppressive dress code, but not in the obvious form of trinkets and accessories. No rings adorn his fingers, no piercings to thread steel bars and studs through, no necklaces decorate his neck; the only charm he ever cared to wear religiously came in the form of his father’s old watch. A smart, practical timepiece he had always admired as a young boy, a gift given to him on his twelfth birthday, promptly stolen in his first week as a university student. It is not in the form of jewellery, but in the form of his shirts, that Cullen stands out from his fellow tutors. A sharp-looking Bordeaux red shirt on a Monday, a poisonous deep purple for Wednesday - the arms often rolled up to his elbows out of habit – even with a practical upbringing ruling his taste in attire, Cullen appears to have an aversion to plain white shirts, something he attributes to his childhood, spent ruining every school shirt playing football with his classmates, although it may also be attributed to the fact that his tattoo – an element of himself he is forbidden to reveal to his students, cannot be seen through shirts of a darker colour.
A couple of waistcoats were employed on a daily basis when he first began teaching, but they were promptly shunned for fear of appearing ‘too British’. These days, the elusive waistcoats are donned only when Cullen feels he must push the proverbial boat out – special occasions such as birthdays or staff inspections, where they are often paired with cufflinks. On the handful of occasions where he has been invited to share the company of the teaching body for festivities, he has shown up in the exact same attire he dons for the classroom – one simply assumes that the man is stereotypically British in regards to fashion – an impression that is further strengthened when he slips a pair of thin-framed reading glasses onto the bridge of his nose whilst sifting through three classes’ worth of English tests.
The truth is that there are only two extremes Cullen accepts when clothes are the topic of conversation – garments worn for relaxation and those worn for work. There is no in between for him to acknowledge; if he is not wearing dress trousers, he is walking about his apartment wearing track suit bottoms or jeans, a dress shirt substituted for a plain t-shirt, or one of a handful of long-sleeved rugby shirts – including his team shirt from his university years, admittedly showing the tell-tale signs of a rough life in its old age. He firmly believes in comfortable clothing, particularly when he feels like tripe – and in tracksuit bottoms and a t-shirt, he often looks the part.
Cullen possesses no desire to stand out more than he does simply by being a European in an Eastern country – an impression that is intensified by his affinity for walking with his eyes turned down to the pavement. He has no message he wishes to convey to the public. Shirts with slogans are for teens and rebels, and Cullen is well aware that he is not the rebellious sort. Eye-catching transfers and patterns are left for those younger than himself, convinced he is too old to be taken seriously in such youthful and modern attire. Footwear is, perhaps, the most ignored article – he owns the grand total of two pairs – sensible leather dress shoes for work and formal functions, and a single pair of black trainers for his leisure, the soles of which have recently begun to lose the their talent for resisting rain water.
