I’ve always been fascinated by air hostesses.
As a child, I watched them walk through airport terminals with an elegance I could only dream of. They moved like they belonged to a world just slightly above ours, a realm of shiny shoes, rolling suitcases and perfectly tied neck scarves. Their lipstick never smudged. Their hair obeyed gravity. And when they walked down the airplane aisle, they weren’t just serving drinks, they were commanding space. Even turbulence seemed to respect them.
Back then, I didn’t know I was transgender. I just knew I wanted to be an air hostess, whoever she was, whatever her name tag said. I didn’t want to be with the air hostess. I wanted to be the air hostess. And even though I’m now living openly as myself and have embraced so much of the femininity I longed for, there’s still something about seeing a woman in uniform gliding down the aisle of an airplane, that sends a tiny ache right through me.
My best friend, Caroline, is a flight attendant. We’ve been close for a long time, long before either of us imagined where life would take us. While I was struggling with my manhood and dreaming abstract dreams of womanhood, she was already researching airlines, learning about cabin pressure and emergency protocol and practicing her smile in the mirror.
Now, years later, I see her with her wheeled suitcase and flawless bun, her posture a masterclass in confidence. When we meet for coffee between her flights, I sometimes just sit and stare at her, amazed. There’s something inherently cinematic about her job. She’s had layovers in New York, breakfast in Dubai, sunsets in São Paulo. She speaks in airport codes and time zones, and has perfected the art of packing her entire life into a suitcase smaller than my carry-on.
But I’ve also seen the darker side of her world.
I’ve seen her stumble into our café, exhausted after 14 hours in the air, her voice hoarse from dry cabin air, her patience frayed by a passenger who thought “Please fasten your seatbelt” was a personal attack. I’ve seen the toll the irregular hours take on her sleep, the way she struggles with jet lag that doesn’t just knock you out, it disorients your very sense of where and who you are. I’ve seen her cry from missing birthdays and holidays. I’ve watched her stretch her legs because she’s been on her feet for hours, serving meals and de-escalating arguments 35,000 feet in the sky.
And there’s the glamour tax no one talks about, the unspoken, but ever-present pressure to look “presentable.” There are rules about hair, nails, makeup and body. Some airlines still expect “a certain weight range” and offer feedback that wouldn’t pass even the most lenient HR sniff test in any other industry. She once told me only half-jokingly, that you get trained in safety procedures, but hired for your smile.
So I know now that the job isn’t all first-class perks and Instagram-ready views. There are delays, canceled flights, demanding passengers, aching feet and a constant, grinding expectation to be composed. Always composed.
Still, I envy her.
Not because I think I could have handled the job, honestly, I’m not sure I could have. I get motion sickness on bumpy landings and I’m suspicious of hotels that don’t offer complimentary conditioner. And I know it’s too late for me to start down that career path. Airline recruitment isn’t exactly bursting with second chances for middle-aged transwomen who didn’t do their flying hours when they were 20.
But when I board a plane, I still watch the crew. I still notice the way they move down the aisle with quiet authority. I catch a glimpse of my younger self in the reflection of the overhead bin, wide-eyed, longing, still dreaming. And yes, sometimes I’m jealous.
Not because I want the job, but because I still want the feeling. That sense of being part of something elegant and brave, something sky-high and magical. That moment when the wheels lift off the ground and you think, “Anything is possible.”
I may never wear the uniform. I may never memorize the safety demo or do the lipstick check before takeoff. But in another lifetime, I would have walked that aisle as an air hostess.
And maybe, just maybe, I still do, in my dreams.
Monika has been interviewing trans people in her blog, The Heroines of My Life, since 2013. Click here to see who she has interviewed lately.
 |
| Wearing BOSS Hugo Boss |
 |
| Two 1950-era femulators in the 2006 British short Private Life. |
No comments:
Post a Comment