This summer, I’m thrilled to see the crisscrossing contrails of airline flights returning to the summer skies. Back in the day, in career # 1, I worked about 2000 flights for American Airlines as a flight attendant. There are some days I wish I were still up there, but working for an airline makes you realistic. To mix my metaphors, that flight has sailed.

Our training at American Airlines stressed the myriad aspects of the stewardess job: safety, corporate culture, flight operations, customer relations, and the one that impacted our lives both on and off the job – our appearance. I never expected the degree of perfection American demanded from us. In those six and a half weeks of training, our appearance was scrutinized by the instructors constantly. And as they taught us more about how to achieve that perfection, the criticism increased.

“Marcy, your manicure is not even. All your nails should be the same length.” Easy for them to say. For a nail-biter like me, having nails at all was a major accomplishment.

“Marcy, we see you have a pimple today. Are you prone to acne? We might have to rethink your hiring.” OMG, one little zit? I learned their lessons about skin care and makeup cover-ups quickly.

“Marcy, do you really need that brownie on your tray. Perhaps we should re-weigh you in the morning.” Totally terrifying. But she was right – we had to conform to the prescribed weight range for our height, and they weighed us often. After a skinny graduation and the normal 6-month probation period, I fought five extra pounds much of the time I flew. I was 5′ 9″ tall in those days and weighed 139 pounds. By American’s standards I was borderline obese.

Our uniforms were custom made. The button jackets were form fitting over stick-straight skirts. Again, perfection. Any extra weight showed immediately, and I spent years not eating potatoes, pastries, pasta or pizza.

We wore overseas caps atop perfectly cut hairstyles. Our hair had to be at least a half inch above our blouse collar – no bobby pins, no barrettes, no ponytails. Perfect.

Polish your navy pumps, carry extra stockings, extra nail polish, and hair products. Think of wind, rain, jet blasts, anything that could ruin your appearance. And absolutely no sunburn. If we were that foolish, we were grounded, without pay, until the redness or peeling had passed.

And if perfection was seared into our psyches in training, it continued in the field. We carried flight manuals at all times – the bible for every aspect of our job. The manual even told us when to check our appearance. After we boarded and stowed our belongings, we checked the cabins, galleys, equipment and supplies. Then before passenger boarding, the manual read, “Check appearance.” Into the lavatory, check makeup, lipstick, hair and uniform. Only then were we ready to greet our passengers, a perfect, smiling welcome aboard.. Before an in-flight service, “Check appearance.” Then, after the service and before leaving the aircraft for the terminal, “Check appearance.” In addition to physical appearance, our behavior in public was prescribed.

I had taken Psychology I and II in college. I did wonder if American was creating a workforce of narcissists. How much time can you spend looking in a mirror? But frankly, the job never left enough time to fall in love with your reflected image. My lipstick being perfect was just as important as my galley supplies – just part of American’s professional standard.

The company didn’t want painted, overdone or casual-looking stewardesses. We were to be fresh, crisp, polished and coifed, the all-American girl next door. We were their ambassadors as we walked through the terminals, and in those days, suitcases didn’t have wheels. Let me tell you, it was hard to pull off perfection as we schlepped our luggage for miles through airports and hotels, wearing 3-inch heels.

Naturally, some of the expectations stuck. Those twelve years of being on display, of trying to look like the marketing posters, gets into your head. The reality of it gradually slips away as life happens to your face, your body, your joints, your available time. However, to this day, I don’t leave home without combed hair, lipstick and tidy earrings. And I don’t go past our driveway in anything sleeveless, or shorts of any kind. I’m a big believer in not contributing to visual pollution.

American Airlines taught us to be responsible and self-controlled about so much in our lives. Well-ingrained habits die hard. But somehow, I never quite got the hang of leaving the brownies on the buffet table. It wasn’t in the manual.

Marcy O’Brien lives in Warren, Pa. with her husband, Richard, and Finian, their tri-colored Maine Coon. Marcy can be reached at Moby.32@hotmail.com.