Fixed | Lafranceapoil

"And the prize for the most magnifique facial hair goes to…" the Mayor paused for drama.

Lafranceapoil was, naturally, outraged.

The trouble began when the Mayor, a man whose own chin was as bare as a baby’s heel, declared a "Great Facial Hair Competition." The prize: a lifetime supply of artisanal cheese and the right to sit at the front of the town’s annual snail race. lafranceapoil

The crowd murmured. They had never heard a moustache speak before. Some were impressed. Most were mildly alarmed. "And the prize for the most magnifique facial

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. The crowd murmured

Lafranceapoil relaxed its tips.

"Fine," it grumbled, but softly. "The beard can have second place. But I demand a baguette."