You walk into the sultrily dark jazz club, this dashingly chic hat shading your shadowed eyes. With a swish of your fringed skirt, you settle into one of the plush corner booths and order a Manhattan. You slide your fingers along the side of this wheat-colored hat's black, bowed grossgain band before crumpling its conveniently crushable form in your impatient hands. At last, a harsh white spotlight splashes onto the stage, and the tuxedo-clad scat singer saunters jauntily over to the microphone with a glance in your direction. Although you tried to play it cool, he noticed you. He grabs hold of the retro microphone, gesturing in your direction. "I got a song for you and that sassy hat of yours," he elocutes in his buttery voice. "Rat-tat-a-tat-hat-ah! Bop-ba-bee-bea-utiful!"
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