"And the prize for the most magnifique facial hair goes to…" the Mayor paused for drama.
"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 !" lafranceapoil
The Mayor, feeling the tickle of Lafranceapoil, began to smile. A real, warm, cheese-loving smile. And because he smiled, Lafranceapoil felt something it had never felt before: connection. For the first time, it wasn't just a floating, lonely curl of hair. It was part of a laugh. Part of a face. Part of a moment. "And the prize for the most magnifique facial
You see, Lafranceapoil had a flaw: it was terribly vain. It believed that all hair—eyebrows, beards, even the tragic little tufts inside a nostril—should bow before its magnificence. It has no élan