Dear YUFA:

I haven’t seen such full force, orange-faced, jaw-line foundation since the experimental makeup of my fellow eighth graders in 1983. Darling, you’re in your twenties, entrenched in a profession that demands coiffed hair and natty, neck-scarfed uniforms. Why, then, the poor choice in facial attire? Do your fellow attendants cattily snipe behind your back?

Why, in this airborne sisterhood, where I imagine the elders passing down intricate French braid technique, does not one of your colleagues take you post-haste to the nearest Bobbi Brown counter for instruction in blending and how to match your coloring, not your outfit.

YUFA, we count on you for our safety, our beverage and our small, salty snack. Give us confidence with a fresh face that makes us notice your confident smile and your reassuring eyes, rather than your cosmetic mask and your dark room application.

Signed,

STLMom, Seat 6A

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