After days of covering a hurricane on the coast, we drove hours to return to the news station. I felt at ease, the hard work in the rearview mirror and no new deadlines in sight. I felt comfortable in jeans and a casual shirt, absent the obligatory tie. Experiencing a lack of electricity for several days left me with the beginnings of a beard.
But when we arrived at the newsroom, the news director blindsided me with a request he no doubt considered clever. I imagined heading home early. However, he proposed I sit on set for the 6pm newscast and chat with the anchors about my experience with the storm.
I stood incredulous. I wasn’t wearing a suit. I looked disheveled and scruffy. I shouldn’t sit beside two polished anchors caked in make-up.
The news director considered my wardrobe perfect for the occasion, a genuine representation of the story I would share.
At a minimum, I felt compelled to shave. I carried a razor but lacked the cream. Moments later, I stood before a mirror and proceeded to do something I hadn’t done before or since: I dry shaved. A razor without liquid with a limited amount of time.
The razor carved a chunk out of my chin. By the time I took my seat on set, the blood continued to flow. People piled up the paper towels for the purposes of dabbing. Fortunately, the main anchor, in the calm and confident tone that defines his profession, pointed out the cut stopped bleeding and in the nick of time.
I shared my story. The viewers watched some hurricane footage. The anchors and I finished our discussion for the audience. But before we moved on to something new, the same anchor swiveled toward the camera and asked the audience not to worry about the blood still sticking to my face. He explained I had cut myself shaving. I smiled, the way people smile when their true intention is to slap you.
During a commercial break, the anchor told me he felt obligated to explain to people why blood pooled on my chin. He had told me I had stopped bleeding simply to prevent me from panicking.
So when people sit before a camera and complain they don’t do well on video, I remind them it’s not live television. We can always start again. We’re checking their make-up and watching out for unflattering shadows and crooked ties.
Whatever their insecurities of appearing in a video, they’re not attempting to share a story while everyone tuning in is focused on the sliver of blood bubbling on their chin.
