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.
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
The crowd murmured. They had never heard a moustache speak before. Some were impressed. Most were mildly alarmed. The Mayor, feeling the tickle of Lafranceapoil, began