Holiday approaching, I decide on the spur of the moment, to have a go. My fragrant lady sits me in a red leather reclining bar stool and tips back the chair. I suddenly come to my senses; I'm in the middle of Basingstoke's Festival Place for God's sake. But it's too late. She's twisting and twirling the thread and ouchy! she's ripping away like there's no tomorrow.
Tears come to my eyes. I am convinced I will end up brow-less by the time she is finished. What's taking her so long - my eyebrows aren't bushy or anything!
She shows me the results in a hand-held mirror. Impressive, though I say so myself. Then she looks at me. And how about your top lip madam? she asks.
I am fair. I do NOT have a moustache but she fixes me with such a sceptical look that all of a sudden I feel like I'm rivalling General Kitchener telling us our country needs me. Except without a mustache, okay?
Okay, I squeak, not okay at all. And within seconds she is cotton-twirling and ripping, ripping and cotton-twirling. I start to feel faint. My upper-lip has never known such unkind treatment. Minutes later, she is finished and I stagger out of the chair, £15 lighter in the wallet.
I look up to see my husband smirking at me. How does my top lip look? I ask. Very.. bald, he replies.
He supports me to the car and when we get home, I have to have a long lie down telling myself that the next time I feel so impulsive, I should turn around and run in the opposite direction.