The crowd murmured. They had never heard a moustache speak before. Some were impressed. Most were mildly alarmed.
No one was quite sure what Lafranceapoil was. Old Madam Baguette swore it was a cat that had learned to walk on two legs after swallowing a whole encyclopedia of French philosophy. Young Pierre, the baker’s apprentice, insisted it was a shape-shifting poodle, left behind by a mime who had wandered into a fog and never come back. The village children, however, had the simplest answer: Lafranceapoil was a moustache with ambitions. lafranceapoil
Lafranceapoil was, naturally, outraged.
And indeed, that was the closest to the truth. The crowd murmured
So, on the morning of the competition, Lafranceapoil drifted to the town square. The contestants were lined up: a beard like a tangled briar patch, sideburns like frightened squirrels, and a soul patch so small it looked like a typo. The Mayor stood on a podium, stroking his naked chin. Most were mildly alarmed
But the Mayor pointed to the briar-patch beard. "To Monsieur Henri!"