Last week a friend of mine gave a party for her neck. Through the years it had grown worn and thick with the burdens of rubbernecking, bottlenecking and holding her head high. Recently it had developed a crepey wattle, which my friend took as a conspicuous sign that she would either be served up for Thanksgiving dinner or that the A.A.R.P. would soon be leaving its calling card. In the latter case, arthritis, Social Security and early-bird specials would surely follow.
Now, four weeks later, her neck was ready to make its debut. I chose a turtleneck for the occasion. Two other women swathed themselves in Isadora-length scarves. Together we neckless wonders rang her bell.
''Is your mother home?'' one of them joked as our rejuvenated friend came to the door. ''My God, you've lost so much weight,'' exclaimed another, her voice pure puce.
The truth was that a swan would have killed for that neck. It had been lifted, lipo'd, pulled and made girlishly taut: in fact, it seemed, so had her whole face. Between bites of gravlax, my friend shuttled us into the kitchen one by one to show us the inch-long incision under her chin (for the lipo) and the longer ones around her ears (for redraping the jowls). Proudly revealing her stitches, she let us feel the bumps of still-swollen tissue and basked in our dutiful ooohs and aaaahs.
Well, of course, he does, remarked one guest as we left. Did you see his eyes? When she went in for the tuck, he had his lids done. Today, if she turns her neck quickly and he squints, they find themselves in the throes of puppy love.