I’VE decided I’m never having children.

Sorry now, but no.

It’s not because I simply don’t want them, or because I’m some sort of child-hater who sits in restaurants and cafes looking disapprovingly at kids in my vicinity, or because I’m afraid I wouldn’t make a good mother.

It’s because of my eyebrows.

I got them done today, for the first time ever.

I know, call the Beauty Police, a 32-year-old woman who’s never had her eyebrows done.

But there’s the hairy truth.

I hadn’t intended to get them done either, for the wedding. It hadn’t even crossed my mind.

I throw a razor over my pits and my shins from time to time and besides washing my hair and having a shower every day, that’s about the extent of my grooming regime.

But that was BW. Before Wedding.

A few weeks ago my sister hired a make-up artist to meet with me to do a trial for the wedding. The make-up lady was going to do ‘a face’ for me and then my sister planned to copy that for the wedding day.

Grand, no problem there.

In she bustled, the make-up lady, looking me up and down as she unpacked her case.

“Are you prone to dark circles?” she asked, prodding the area under my eye and staring me down.

“Er, yes, I guess so,” I replied, terrified.

“And blemishes, and oily skin I see as well,” she continued, in a martyred voice, not even giving me the chance to respond that time.

“Naturally, you’ll be doing something about those eyebrows,” she said, again a statement, not a question.

“My eyebrows?”

I was puzzled. My eyebrows were fine, I didn’t see any problem with them. They sit on top of my eyes, in a normal fashion, not doing anything outrageous. What exactly did I need to ‘do’ with them?

“You’ll be getting them waxed. Or tweezed? Threaded maybe?” she replied, almost pleading with me.

It wasn’t something I had considered but judging by the pitying glances the make-up lady was throwing me, they needed to be done.

So today I bit the bullet and took myself off to the Brow Bar at the Benefit counter in Debenhams on Henry Street.

To be fair to the lovely girl who served with me, even though she actually clutched her throat in horror when she saw the state of my brows, she managed to compose herself and sorted me out with a smile.

Not before she tortured me though.

And here comes the point of this story.

The PAIN of it.

Honest to God, the sheer physical PAIN of it was like nothing I’ve ever experienced.

Because I’d never had my eyebrows done before, they couldn’t wax them as I hadn’t had a patch test and didn’t know if I’d react badly to the wax.

The last thing I wanted 12 days before the wedding was an allergic reaction anywhere near my face.

So I agreed to a tweeze instead.

“It might be a little bit sore….” the lovely girl said kindly, taking me by the hand and backing me into a chair before I could change my mind “but I’ll be quick.”

The liar.

It was AGONY. And she took her time. Though to be fair, she was only doing what I asked her to do. The cow.

“How are you doing there?” she asked gently, halfway through the first eyebrow.

“Nrrrghghghghhhhhh,” I replied as amiably as possible.

“Don’t worry, I’m nearly finished,” she soothed.

The liar.

Hours later, HOURS, I stumbled out into the main store, face numb, forehead roaring red, palms bleeding where I had dug my fingernails in, though it has to be said with beautifully shaped brows.

It actually only took about 15 minutes, but it felt like a lifetime.

If a simple eyebrow tweeze can bring tears to my eyes, imagine what I’d be like trying to force an eight pound baby out through my hoo-ha?

And some women can be in labour for days. Days!

So no, I’ll be having no children thank you very much and from this moment on my eyebrows will grow wild and bushy, the way Liam Gallagher and nature intended.