The Mustache and the Fireball
When you lose your identity
First there was a quiet rumble deep underground, then a small ball of flame burst out of the old well casing, singeing Val’s hair, his eyebrows, and tragically… his glorious mustache.
The lake house we were working on was a massive white box. It had little character, a far cry from the 1930s cabin that had stood there for decades.
The old well casing was left over from the cabin days, once the property’s water source. Now, a new water main ran along the road, clean and free of the sulfur so common around here.
Val set up the torches while I dug down a couple of feet around the pipe. Another contractor, Ray, arrived just in time to see the torching begin.
It didn’t take long before a low rumble came from below, and with little warning, the flame burst up, taking all of Val’s facial hair with it.. including his mustache.
We stumbled back. Val brushed at his face, blinking.
“What the hell?” he said.
Before we could answer, we were trying out best to contain our laughter. The man was suddenly hairless, alien.
You have to understand, Val’s mustache wasn’t simply decoration; it was his identity. A full on Sam Elliott–style Western masterpiece. We once landed two months of steady work building stone walls for a woman who admitted to hiring us based on that mustache alone! And now it lay before us, a blackened curl of memory on the ground.
“Now what?” Val said, rubbing his lip.
“Now finish cutting the pipe,” Ray replied.
Val stared at him, unable to properly furrow his brow.
“It’s just gas trapped in the pipe,” Ray said. “Start cutting again and stop when you hear the rumble. Once it burns off, you’ll have a window before it builds up again.”
Ray sounded sure enough that Val went back in. He struck the torch. A rumble. Another whoosh. But this time he didn’t flinch. He cut, paused, waited for the next flare, then cut again. Soon he’d found a rhythm. Flame, pause, cut.
By the end, the pipe was cut, and the mustache was a memory.
I admired him for that… how he went back to work, burned and barefaced. Most people would’ve called it a day. Most would’ve seen their mustache on the ground and taken it as a sign to quit. But Val finished the job.
We build these small emblems of ourselves and call them identity. But the real thing, the part that lasts, is quieter and stronger. It’s the steady hand that goes back to the task after the flame has taken what you thought was “you”.
Thanks for reading.
Michael
Way to go, Val!