Strange 'What if they met' Scenarios...
Who: Aileen and Cliff Where: The Costume Ball, more specifically, the bar. When: Dec 30th, evening.
Good fashion almost always came with the sacrifice of good comfort. It never failed, really.... and Aileen was the type to gladly pay the price. She learned long ago that with beauty usually came pain (in many, many degrees), and accepted that fact as just one more step in the ladder to success. Not to mention she was the type of woman who always wanted to look her best. Even if she looked frazzled, trust her... it was an intentional chaos.
That being said, however, costumes did not necessarily always fit into her idea of fine fashion, OR necessity for success. Even at the occasional Halloween gig booked for Muse and the band, Aileen did not dress up. What was different about tonight? A momentary weakness brought on by the fact that she had not had enough Vicodin in her system to realize what she was agreeing to.
So there she was, Marilyn Monroe brought to life again. The iconic white dress with the plunging halter neckline--which was also proving to be just about as functional as the original Marilyn's outfit when it came to wind. Aileen had given up trying to smoke all together, because as soon as she let go of the hankerchief hemline to cup the lighter against the wind, just about everyone in view got a good glimpse of what 'Norma Jean' was sporting under that dress.
Frustrated and uncomfortable, the statuesque band manager stormed back inside, and kept her distance from the majority of Disney Princesses and cartoon characters that gafawed and mingled. Her destination was clear. She needed a drink. ...and get rid of this scratchy-ass horrible wig.
The flaxen fiberglass thing literally sailed over the counter, thumping like a dead animal in the trashcan she had aimed for: Aileen Sullivan lightly twisted at the hips and settled on a bar stool between Betty Boop and Batman: one hand set to preening and primping the cascade of natural blond hair (touched by expensive highlights, of course), so happy to be freed from their itchy prison.
"Gin an'tonic." She quipped quickly at the bartender while crossing her legs, one knee over the other. A bent elbow propped on the counter. The other hand rummaged through the small silver clutch for proper payment for the drink.