It is a truth universally acknowledged that at some point in our lives—especially if we are women—we will begin to feel bad about our necks. It isn’t our fault. It is simply a sad side effect of the human design, whereby that thin-skinned little stalk is tasked with holding up our big, heavy heads, constantly bending and twisting, and all the while being woefully under-endowed with collagen and elastin fibers. Can you honestly say that you remember to put sunscreen below your chin every day? Our poor necks endure such abuse. Are you looking down at your phone right now to read this? Sorry.
I began to feel bad about my neck younger than most. At 32, I noticed an odd little protrusion in the vicinity of my windpipe (a nascent Adam’s Apple?) that was subsequently diagnosed as a thyroid nodule (yech). Due to family history and the potentially nefarious intentions of said nodule (it was benign, but would you trust it?), the decision was made to just yank out my entire thyroid gland. Better safe than sorry. The only downside—other than having to pop a levothyroxine pill every day forever—was that it left me with an unlovely concavity at the base of my neck. Goodbye Adam’s Apple, hello… void. (I also have a horizontal scar above my clavicle, but that’s cool. I tell people I’ve been in a knife fight.)
