“Giraffe.”

That word, slung-shot from the mouth of a nasty 13-year-old boy by the name of Melvin, is the beginning of this story.

And this story is about my neck, which, some 40 years ago, was compared to the oddly built beast whose neck knows no end — the giraffe.

To my adolescent chagrin and dicey self-esteem, the name stuck.

And to this day, every morning I look in the bathroom mirror and hate my neck. Especially now, since the youthful skin that once clung to its length is hanging loosely, much like the wattle of a turkey.

So it is that a year ago, I entertained the idea of cosmetic surgery.

I went to a plastic surgeon in Athens, Ga., discussed the situation, saw the proposed bill for his services and said, “Heck no. Not this practical girl. I’ll simply grow old gracefully. I’ll be happy with my accomplishments — making a home on Lake Hartwell, raising two fine children with an equally fine husband of nearly 30 years, writing stories and columns for newspapers, finishing one novel and beginning another, dabbling in artistic pursuits.”

And I would forget about my neck.

And my saggy upper eyelids.

And my funny little chin that slopes inward from my bottom lip so much that I often appear not to have a chinny-chin-chin at all.

Yep, I would forget about it.

Until, of course, I appeared on an Atlanta evening news program this past December and wondered if that wrung-out-looking woman talking into the camera really was me. You know, the lady who walks three miles a day. Who can still get up on a slalom ski. Who rides horses and plays golf. Who feels as full of life and energy as she was when she was 10.

Yep, it was me. Sporting a turkey wattle and looking all tuckered out.

So it is that a month ago, I once again entertained the idea of cosmetic surgery. I went to another plastic surgeon — this one in Atlanta — and reassessed the situation.

“This is not like me to do something like this,” I said, by way of introduction.

He smiled.

“I mean, I’m a wife, and a mom, and a writer, and I have never considered doing something as self-centered as this. I have a hard time spending money to buy a new pair of jeans. Much less a rejuvenated face. I feel guilty as all get-out.”

He smiled; I babbled on.

“I just don’t know why this has become so important to me.”

He cleared his throat.

“Because,” he said, “you want to look the way you feel. You are strong and you feel good. You want to look the way you feel.”

I was sold. Signed, sealed, delivered. My face was his.

The medical terms for the surgery I’m having are complicated. If all goes well, the process will take about four hours. I will spend one night in the hospital in Atlanta and I will probably look like a prizefighter when I return home to Hartwell.

The weeks following my surgery will not be easy.

I’m prepared to hunker down here at home for at least a month. Sunglasses and hooded sweatshirts will come in handy. I have my writing and my artwork to keep me busy.

What I am not prepared for, but immensely curious about, is what I will look like when my bruising has faded, when all is said and done. My doctor says I will look rested and refreshed. He says I will not look stretched, pulled or pinned back.

So, speaking of my doctor, how did I find him? Same way I find good recipes, good books, good advice, good times and good shoulders to cry on.

I talked to one of my best friends who knew of a friend who had “work done.” The friend of my friend had researched the matter like a scientist, consulted with numerous doctors, decided upon one in particular and was extremely pleased with the outcome.

Suffice it to say, I know the woman who had the work done and, while I have always thought she looked great for her age, I would never have guessed she had cosmetic surgery.

I asked her if she felt guilty about spending a significant amount of money on herself.

Her answer was a funny one.

“Let’s put it this way,” she said. “I have not told my mother.”

Nor have I told mine. (Yikes!)

Cosmetic surgery is a personal decision. There are those who will tell you, lovingly, that you don’t need it. That you look just fine. There are those who will tell you that it is a silly thing to do, that one must accept aging as part of the life process, that to do otherwise is foolhardy.

There also are those (in my case, me) who will remind you that the stock market is a mess, that you have another child to educate, that the house could use a new paint job, that there are about a million and one things ahead of your face on the old to-do list.

Then there is that person (me, again) who goes online and researches the approximate number of diapers a mother changes from the time her baby is born until the child is toilet-trained: 5,300. Never mind the number of meals cooked, the number of dishes washed, the number of clothes washed and folded, the numbers of conflicted hours spent at work while knowing you need to be at home, the number of miles raced here and there to pick up a child or drop one off at an appointed place at an appointed time.

It’s no wonder my skin is hanging off my face. No wonder my eyes are darn near slap shut.

And it’s no wonder that when I tell my closest friends — women who are close to me in age and life stage — what I’m about to do, they respond with one piece of advice: “You go, girl!”

For the record, my husband is supportive. This, if I think about it too long, can be a little disconcerting. I have to wonder if he thinks I look as much like a hag as I think I do. But that’s not fair. He’s supportive, and I’ll take all the support I can get. (Thank you, dear.)

And I will report to you in the near future about how things progress.

And if you let my mom know about this, I’m coming after you.

And, if I ever see Melvin again, I’m going to punch his lights out.

Salley McInerney is a former columnist for the Anderson Independent-Mail. She will write several more stories about her cosmetic surgery, so stay tuned. To reach Salley, you may e-mail her at salley@hartcom.net.