When I was younger I wanted to be an airhostess. Planes still held a kind of magic – massive vessels of metal suspending themselves effortlessly in the atmosphere held up by the possibility of human innovation. Magic. When you are young science is a foreign concept, so your young imaginative brain chose’s to entertain fantasy , and there’s nothing more fantastical then flying. The excitement of the unknown becomes realized as you sit down and prepare for take-off. Seat belt on, Tray tables locked, chair in upright position. Watching the city get smaller is always a humbling experience, cars start to look like ants making their tracks among the suburban concrete and the skyscrapers that once stood over you suddenly fall away beneath you. Looking out the window to see the plane covered in a shroud of weightless clouds makes you feel like you have departed the realm of mortals and ascended to the ranks of gods.
I thought that airhostess were the people chosen to watch over this liminal space between the earth and the sky, helping to create the magic of flying with their illusions of opulence. You would be met with an unflattering red lipped smile that spoke of glamour, a language unexpected for the frugality of economy class and one that helped you forget about the cramped leg room and recycled air. Their attentiveness and desire to fulfill your every demand makes you feel noticed in a cabin gorged with people. I would fantasize about becoming an airhostess. Escaping my small country town to live the life of a rockstar- travelling around the world, a new city every night, hotel rooms, a passport filled with foreign places stomach full with different foods. But as I became older i realized that being a rockstar isn’t everything it is dreamt to be. The airplane meals started to loose their taste.
I recently embarked on my longest flight yet and it was while undertaking this trek from one side of the world to another that the magic of being an airhostess dissipated. Being an airhostess is just another job. A job sold as a lifestyle to entice those who are wanting an altitude change. Their work is a cruel form of performance art, written for an audience that is often tired, uncomfortable and rude. The knee length skirts and cream-colored stockings no longer seemed glamorous but restrictive, their carefully constructed face of foundation and red lipstick resembling a mask enforced by the airline to hide how tedious their job really is. There is a mediocracy to be found in monotony, one that is more confronting in places that are supposed to capture the surreal. I’m sure that not everyday is the same but as you land. Seat belt of, Tray tables locked, chair in upright position and get given a quiet farewell, you can’t help but wonder if they have said the script so many times now that it has become a mumble, devoted of any real meaning. I wondered if their mouth got sore from constantly smiling, how long it took them to get ready for work, if they were really thankful for you choosing this airline. I wondered if their dream of being an airhostess lived up to its reality, or if they also got lost in the magic of flying.
