Back to: The Cabin Crew Interview Made Easy – Curbside

Words: 2,675

Read Time: 21 minutes

Oct 6, 2025

Lesson Author

Caitlyn. Rogers

From the moment I first dreamt of slipping into my dream flight attendant uniform, the armchair experts sidled up. All eager to peck the winged emblem off my budding ambition. They all knew the odds. And they made sure I did too.

During high school career week, my career “encouragement” arrived in two soul-crushing instalments. First, a personality test asserted: “Flight attendants are extraverts — you’re an introvert, so don’t even bother.” Then an Eastern Airlines job poster chimed in, “We look at nineteen girls before we find one — the rest are Losers.” According to everyone and everything, I was one of those losers.

Back then, flight attendant didn’t even warrant a formal career folder, just a battered, dog-eared manilla envelope containing vintage magazine clippings. No formal job sheet. No bulleted pathways to career success. But it didn’t need any. The captions did all the heavy lifting.

“Introducing The Losers.”

One simply said: “I’m Cheryl.” That was it. Her name and face was her résumé for success. Another offered more character development: “Think of her as your mother.” Naturally, the posters and personality test looked at me, saw my home-cut hair, my mismatching daps, and said: meh, you’re neither.

I was thirteen. Never even kissed a boy, worn heels, let alone earned my first passport stamp, yet my wings were clipped and thrown onto the Slag Heap. But, I found something wondrous in that folder: Turns out, the airlines had Charm Farms — magical little academies where they transformed ordinary girls just like me into trolley dollies. That was it, my fate sealed. I dreamt of one day attending that Charm Farm.

First, I changed my name to…

Ah. How terribly impolite of me. This is only lesson two, not customs. I’ll keep my suitcase zipped and save the declarations for later. Let’s get you settled in and initiated first. We’ll begin by cracking open a statistic that casts a gloomy shadow over the recruitment process.

But this topic gets panties in a twist, so let’s creep upstairs to my bedroom — fewer doll heads and more trolley dolly posters. Plus, we can find some clothing for our first encounter with Virgin.

At first glance, these numbers sparkle with prestige and exclusivity. But look closer.

Much of it is marketing.

A numbers game.

A carefully engineered illusion.

In this lesson, I’ll strip away the sparkle, unpack the system, and show you what’s really going on behind the headlines — and what it actually means for you.

P.S. If you’re wondering why I said maths instead of math and now you are quietly judging my spelling — well done. You’ve just shown attention to detail and cultural awareness. It’s British English. We spell differently. Mostly adding a lot of extra “u”‘s and “l”‘s. You’ll get used to it.

You know when you’re sitting on your bed in a towel, half-scrolling, half-eating peanut butter with a teaspoon, and bing, your inbox glows with the news you’ve long waited for: “Recruitment is open”. Within seconds, the towel is gone, because now you’re strutting the cabin, cinched in scarlet, or beige, or blue, depending on the airline’s aesthetic du jour.

And then, like a cruel plot twist, your foot goes numb. Pins. Needles. Reality. You blink.

300,000 applicants

You read it twice, convinced you’re seeing too many zeros. Possibly hallucinating. Might be peanut butter-induced. But no. It’s real. It’s the population of a small island nation. (Barbados, if you’re curious. Though I doubt Barbados has quite so many people frantically Googling “How to fit my hair into a 7cm bun?”)

In the gilded days of the 1960s, Eastern Airways boasted a 19-to-1 selection ratio — a genteel figure compared to our modern day 100-to-1 monstrosity.

If those odds have just hit you like a cold brew to the face, I’m truly sorry. I know that glassy stare. But hold that espresso shot and don’t even think about settling for that barista job. Here’s where I come running in with hot towels, smelling salts, and perspective.

One of the keys about airline recruitment is never take anything at face value — including the 99% rejection rate. Whilst technically correct, those stats mean a lot more to the airlines than they should to you.

Still breathing?

Excellent.

We’re about to crosscheck the 99%.

Let’s pull back the galley curtain and peek into the profit-driven minds of the airline execs, shall we?

Airlines drop recruitment drives like Taylor Swift drops albums — Loud. Pre-buzzed. Destined to trend and guaranteed to crash either the servers or the stock-market.

At this rate, we’re maybe two recruitment cycles away from a concert wristband, an overpriced entry fee. and VIP lounge.

• How much would you pay for the front row?
• Would you pay for a one on one with the recruiter?

That jaw-dropping applicant number doesn’t just say “we’re hiring” — It signals dominance. It cements brand prestige and sends out a siren call to customers, investors, and rivals that screams: “Look how adored we are. We’re fabulous” Work here. Fly here. Invest here.

Welcome to the golden age of hiring-as-marketing. Airlines found a way to do it all and look fabulous doing it.

A single job ad becomes:

• A brand campaign
• A prestige generator
• A shareholder aphrodisiac
• A competitor’s migraine
• And customer infatuation

Meanwhile the world reposts, retweets, replays it. CNN reports the hiring frenzy and server meltdowns as news. Tabloids and applicants repost, breathless and wide-eyed:

“Harder than Harvard.”
“Virgin applications doubled overnight.”
“Chinese airlines swamped with applications.”
“Southwest servers crash under applicant surge.”
“1000 hopefuls converge at an Emirates open day.”

Airlines get the press, the people, and the proof of desirability — all for the budget-friendly cost of one recruitment post. And zero need to remind the world how fabulous they are — because “World” of mouth does it for them.

Meanwhile, you stare wide-eyed at your mirror, chewing your cuticles, wondering “Am I good enough?”

Finding top talent is a numbers game. And airlines, of course, are seasoned players who know power lies in having loads of people desperate to work for them.

If only 10,000 people apply for 6,000 roles, the power shifts. Suddenly, applicants are in control and the airline is the one panicking as they rifle through a sad little bin of “available” instead of “excellent.”

As Brendan Noonan, then Senior Vice President of Learning and Development at the Emirates Group, explained back in 2013:

“We get a great catalogue of individuals who want to work for the airline. We are in a very lucky position where we can cherry-pick the best of the people we want.”

That’s right, airlines cherry-pick alright because no self-respecting carrier wants to cobble together a flagship crew by hiring Dave who stuck orthotic insoles to his feet to sleuth the reach test and thought customer service experience meant bantering at the pub.

Volume means more options.

More options means better hires.

It’s a bit like online dating, but with fewer shirtless selfies…

…Oh, wait, no, that’s just hit my inbox, complete with a teethie (teeth selfie).

And that brings us to an important point.

Volume, whilst advantageous, swiftly turns messy when the world and their flatmates descend.

And that brings us full-circle to the 99%.

I understand how debilitating this number sounds. The odds and I go way back. So far back, I can’t actually recall where or when I first heard the stat. Somewhere between Dad’s fourth and fortieth plea for me to join his doll-selling empire or sign on the dole and become an actual dole head. (Yeah, my family had a major doll obsession.)

Naturally, I ignored the odds because “can’t do” passed straight through the teenage rebellion filter and came out the other side as: “Oh really? Watch this.” Which is exactly how I temporarily reverse-engineered popularity in high school.

And anyway, what does 99% look like? Sounds like maths. I was no good at that. I needed failure I could see, like the F grade penned to my maths text paper.

Fast-forward three decades, a shameful collection of rejection emails later, an inbox soaked with crying emojis, and I can’t unsee the damn 99% because it is tangible, after all.

To show you what that number actually looks like, allow me to open my inbox and show you:

“Hello Mam. I meet all the requirements. Why do I keep getting rejected?”

In the P.S. the applicant stuffs their CV, full-length photos, browfies and skinfies into my inbox. Then, at the bottom, barely breathing:

P.S. “I don’t have xyz, but…”

P.P.S.“Um, can I fake it?”

P.P.P.S.“Well, I see applicants who don’t have it being invited to the AD.”

Then comes the ATS ‘ed CV and the inevitable rejection, followed by:

“Will xyz airline know it’s me if I apply again with a new email?”

And the let’s wing it attitude…

“It’s unfairrrrr.”

Then the regret sets in…

These are not unusual messages. This is not an unusual cycle. You only have to scroll through forums to see much of the same.

And applicant advice doesn’t fare any better.

Cabin crew is a popular profession with deceptively low entry requirements. You’ll find the glamorisers chasing the lifestyle, the speculators hedging a career bet, the underprepared hoping charm will cover the gaps, and the utterly incompatible who think ‘human’ is enough.

So many follow misguided advice then show up to the open day dressed like they already work there — down to the perfect shade of lipstick — and call that preparation.

Others don’t want to do the work, they just want to look like they’ve done it. That’s why cheatsheets exist. It’s why every other online thread is about ATS-optimising a CV. That’s the real problem here; not the belief, the asking questions, or the confusion — heck, we can all relate to that — the problem is the unwillingness to change.

We are like ballerinas, but instead of stuffing our buns with rolls of coins to make weigh-ins, we’re bringing the beehive back in fashion to sleuth the height test.

And yes — I said we. That wasn’t judgement. It was confession. I was the 99%. That’s how I know all the tricks. I invented some of them.

But, not you, you’re here. Reading. Prepping. Already ahead. And while that should give you a certain comfort, sadly, it doesn’t make the process any easier. The process is still bloated with applicants, and recruiters have one hell of a job to do. And that means you do too.

Imagine the 99% as a runway packed with jets. All gleaming under the sun. Fresh paint, pristine liveries, ATSed spec sheets that scream “ready for takeoff.” But get closer and the truth rattles. Some have fudged their odometers. Parts cobbled together. A few slap on bold decals, hoping no one notices they don’t even have spec sheets. Some haven’t even taxied, but mimic the sound of a jet engine to perfection.

And right there in the middle is you: a well-built aircraft. Streamlined. Balanced. Structurally sound. Designed to fly long-haul, not just taxi in circles. You’ve had upgrades, been maintained. But you’re parked alongside 300,000 others, all sporting the same livery, copied tail numbers, and all swearing they’re airworthy too.

Then the chatter starts: “

• They only pick jets with pink stripes.”
• “No, it’s the winglets.”
• “Forget that — just fudge the numbers. It’s all luck anyway.”

Suddenly you’re second-guessing.

• Is your paint too matte?
• The pink too salmon?
• Slightly off-brand?
• Should you look like a different model entirely?
• Is your nosecone too big?

Fortunately, airlines don’t fold their arms and pick aircraft by paintwork. They don’t trust spec sheets at face value. Experienced crew run rigorous, revealing tests — Because they need to know what’s under the paint.

That’s exactly what the recruitment process is for. Every test, every question, every group exercise — designed to pop the hood and test structural integrity.

Some airlines — such as Emirates — remove the livery issue altogether. Everyone gets the same dress rules and the same conditions.

So, how does your jet stand out? You strengthen your structural integrity. Then, you get tested. Because when you prep the right way, the process will reveal your alignment.

Let’s meet R.

R. wanted to be cabin crew. Wanted. Past tense. But no sooner had she received an application form, her buzz dulled. “…to be honest, my mom kind of put me off the idea because she had friends who had a real real hard time getting into KLM.” Her Purser cousin agreed, “It’s really competitive”.

Then her Purser cousin got sick. Which, in R.’s house, meant: flying is a giant, airborne petri dish of disease. And just like that, R.’s dream walked itself through the rejection door. And now, years later, she collects airline uniforms as souvenirs of a dream she never chased. That’s how I met R — while I was purchasing my unfulfilled airline dreams on eBay.

Is getting into a premier airline like KLM tough? Sure. Is it impossible? Not even remotely. Did her cousin get sick because of flying? Who knows? That’s not up for debate. But here’s what we do know:

R. let someone else’s fear write her rejection letter.

When some says “You can’t”…

You control the odds by how you treat them.

Some applicants get nervous. Others get serious. So, get serious — because when hundreds of thousands want the same job, there’s no room for whim or wishful thinking. You’ve got to be polished and prepped. And not just any prep — the right prep.

The closet of unfulfilled dreams is stuffed with good intentions, petri dishes, and secondhand uniforms from eBay.

P.S. The statistics are how headlines are born, courses get sold, airlines woo shareholders — and cherry-pick top talent.

P.P.S. The process is designed to weed out the dabblers and the dreamers. So, stop dabbling in dreams and make those dreams memories.