I’m Only 25 and I Absolutely Hate My Neck—and No, You Can’t Talk Me Out of It

According to data collected by the American Academy of Facial Plastic and Reconstructive Surgery (AAFPRS), in 2017, “more than half (55 percent) of people are seeking cosmetic procedures because they are dissatisfied with their profile, including their neck; an equal number want to look better in selfies and on social media.” Facial plastic surgeon and president-elect of the AAFPRS, Dr. Mary Lynn Moran, predicts that this trend will only continue. “Society is extremely self-critical as a result of social media pressure to live curated, photo-documented lives, and this is not going to ease up,” she says.

It’s called objectification theory. The term was coined by Barbara L. Fredrickson and Tomi-Ann Roberts in a 1997 study. Though it was written more than 20 years ago, “the framework for understanding the experiential consequences of being female in a culture that sexually objectifies the female body” is more poignant than ever. With every scroll, like and comment on Instagram, we learn to self-objectify and internalize society’s emphasis on physical appearance. We learn that if your physical appearance is good enough, you can monetize it and make a living snapping selfies in bikinis at the beach.

I work in media. I understand the grand illusion of the Instagram influencer, the amount of planning that goes into one single post. The skinny arm. The head tilt. The smize. My brain knows exactly how designed an Instagram post can be, and that celebrities literally pay people to make them look good. (I don’t even like Instagram, dammit!) But my heart wants to have Emma Watson’s jawline. And right between the two—my head and my heart—well, that’s where my neck is. 

Does wanting a fat-melting procedure really mean I’m self-objectifying myself? And if so, why am I caught up on my neck? Shouldn’t I be thinking about my boobs or butt?

Let’s think about the neck for a second. Quickly, though, because if I think about its physiological purpose too long, I’ll get queasy—that giant artery running through, connecting the rest of our bodies to our heads. We touch our necks when we’re nervous and pregnant women will instinctively cover their necks before their bellies as protection, according to body language experts. It’s the physical link between our head and heart, so it’s instinctual to want to protect it. But, c’mon, am I sexualizing my own neck?

Images of vampires—Bella and Edward, basically every character on Buffy—guillotines and serial killer hands race through my brain. Creepy men with ulterior motives and repressed sexual urges always seem to go for the neck. Marie Antoinette’s husband had his head chopped off too, but nobody talks about him. And what’s the deal with that scary story about the woman with the ribbon around her neck? What does it mean that the most physically vulnerable part of our body is also one of the most sexualized? Perhaps it’s why I prefer turtlenecks over V-necks? Could my hatred of my own neck be connected to how our society sexualizes something that serves one of our bodies’ most obvious utilities, which is also why I want to protect it? The thought of someone judging a part of my body that’s constantly exposed makes me want to shrink into my turtleneck and run. I’m not an Instagram influencer who chooses to put herself out there, yet I still feel like I’m still under scrutiny.

Yes, I can (and will) blame Kardashian Kulture and social media and supermodels and the patriarchy for my neck shaming, but, when I actually think about it, this particular seed of self-loathing began at home, as all the best shame does. My mother has referred to her neck as a “drippy gobbler” and a “turkey neck” on more than one occasion. She’d blame it on a bad gene pool, then suddenly remember that I, holder of 50 percent of her genetics, was standing right beside her. “But you have nothing to worry about,” she’d reassure me. On the one hand, her reassurance, while well-meaning, had done little to silence my insecurities. On the other hand, I feel a twinge of sadness, because I see what she doesn’t: that she’s so much more than her neck (which is not a drippy gobbler, by the way, Mom).

I wanted to tell you a story about my neck. I was willing to go to great lengths to do it, too. I’d get a procedure, come out of it a changed woman with an anatomically ideal neck and tell you all about it. But instead, my editors made me think about why…and tell you all about it. And so I’ve thought about it, at length. And guess what? I still I hate my neck. (For the record, I’d still have the procedure done.)

But I think I’m starting to understand that fixing my neck isn’t going to make me happier, more self-confident or secure. Those problems can’t be solved with an injection…but they can be improved (I think) with time, and a good dose of self-reflection.

Nora Ephron also said, “One of my biggest regrets […] is that I didn’t spend my youth staring at my neck. It never crossed my mind to be grateful for it. It never crossed my mind that I would be nostalgic about a part of my body that I took completely for granted.” 

I feel bad about my neck, but I probably shouldn’t. I worry about what other people think, and I definitely shouldn’t. I’ll start with my neck and go from there.