Two hundred and fifty sheets to a roll, on average, each one about twenty two inches of thin paper meant to circle a neck exactly once and never again. The perforation runs at the same interval on every sheet, so the roll dispenses in one motion, tear and wrap, before the cape goes on over it. The strip sits between skin and fabric, a barrier thin enough to be invisible and stiff enough to hold a crease exactly where the collar meets the neck.
Paper of this weight performs without variation: it keeps loose hair off the collar, absorbs nothing, and tears along its perforation with a consistency few other disposable products manage. A shop of moderate volume works through a roll roughly every two weeks, faster before a holiday, when the daily count runs closer to twenty than the usual dozen. What sets the neck strip apart from everything else disposable on the counter is the complete absence of a second use: not a coffee filter, not scratch paper, nothing salvageable. It travels from roll to neck to bin inside ninety seconds, folded once on the way out, and the roll advances underneath to the next perforation, already lined up for whoever sits down next.