Lafranceapoil -

Lafranceapoil puffed itself up, ready to accept its cheese.

But the Mayor pointed to the briar-patch beard. "To Monsieur Henri!"

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

As for Lafranceapoil, it never floated alone again. But sometimes, late at night, when the Mayor was asleep, it would whisper to the moon:

The Mayor tried to speak, but his new moustache wiggled every time he opened his mouth, making him sound like a duck with a lisp. The crowd laughed. The briar-patch beard bristled with indignation. The sideburns scurried off in shame. Lafranceapoil puffed itself up, ready to accept its cheese

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.

And indeed, that was the closest to the truth. As for Lafranceapoil, it never floated alone again

And the moon, being French that week, simply nodded.