Lafranceapoil | |best|

"I," declared Lafranceapoil, now perched on the Mayor’s face, "am the winner. The Mayor now has the finest moustache in the land. Therefore, the prize is his. Therefore, the prize is mine. Hand over the cheese."

Lafranceapoil was, in fact, a magnificent, independent, and deeply opinionated moustache. It was not attached to any face—it had simply decided, one Tuesday, that it no longer needed a human to express its grandeur. It was curly at the tips, thick as a chestnut forest in the middle, and the color of a well-roasted coffee bean. It floated through the village streets like a tiny, dignified cloud of hair, humming fragments of accordion music and muttering about the proper way to fold a napkin. lafranceapoil

As for Lafranceapoil, it never floated alone again. But sometimes, late at night, when the Mayor was asleep, it would whisper to the moon: "I," declared Lafranceapoil, now perched on the Mayor’s

Lafranceapoil was, naturally, outraged.

Lafranceapoil puffed itself up, ready to accept its cheese. Therefore, the prize is mine

"WHAT?" it shrieked, in a voice like a startled goose wearing a beret. "That—that hedge on his chin? It has no élan ! No je ne sais quoi ! It’s just… hair !"