Lafranceapoil -

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.

Lafranceapoil was, naturally, outraged.

Lafranceapoil puffed itself up, ready to accept its cheese. lafranceapoil

"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 !" So, on the morning of the competition, Lafranceapoil

And indeed, that was the closest to the truth. Lafranceapoil was, naturally, outraged

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.