True enough, despite state-of-the-art concealers, collagen injections and Botox, the feature that most reliably betrays a woman's age these days is her neck: "You have to cut open a redwood tree to see how old it is, but you wouldn't have to if it had a neck." While these giveaway striations, wattles and folds do admit to surgical solutions, Ephron is loath to confront in the mirror "a stranger who looks suspiciously like a drum pad". The title essay is typically dry and undemandingly confiding. After all, so grateful is the average reader to laugh or even cock a smile that few will troll these droll selections without being charmed to bits.
To be revealing only to the degree that you are funny, never to the degree that you plead for sympathy.
The secret appears to be to include a generous measure of beguiling self-deprecation, the humility slyly at odds with prose that is searingly smart.
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