Once, long ago, in a moment of vanity, I offended the gods. As punishment for my insolence, they devised a unique and eternal torment.

Once a month, an irrepressible urge overtook me. With precision and care, I would shave off my mustache, the thick hairs falling to the ground like the shedding of a great beast. For a moment, I would feel a sense of relief, my upper lip bracingly free of its oppressive weight. But as evening drew near, doubts would assail me—had I made the right decision?

I would retire to bed, knowing that with the dawn, the process would begin anew. I would again start to grow my mustache, bitterly aware that I would ultimately succumb to the need to shave it off, resuming the relentless cycle.

The futility of my task weighs upon me, yet I persist, month after month, punished for a sin I no longer even remember.