"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 was, in fact, a magnificent, independent, and deeply opinionated moustache. It was not attached to any face—it had simply decided, one Tuesday, that it no longer needed a human to express its grandeur. It was curly at the tips, thick as a chestnut forest in the middle, and the color of a well-roasted coffee bean. It floated through the village streets like a tiny, dignified cloud of hair, humming fragments of accordion music and muttering about the proper way to fold a napkin. lafranceapoil
And the moon, being French that week, simply nodded. No je ne sais quoi