Bohemianism is not a movement. Bohemianism was invented out of necessity. Bohemian women are not mother-earthy types. They’re mother types who don’t get time to primp, preen and groom. I too have become somewhat of a bohemian. Sitting at hair salons are a thing of the past. I now find myself standing outside while Mark cuts my hair with a rather blunt pair of scissors. Facials and massages are an annual treat, usually around my birthday, served with a glass of champagne and huge slice of guilt. Ever since Emma became mobile getting time away for a Brazilian is as likely as getting time off to travel to Brazil.

As a bohemian I dress according to the way I have shaved. The way I’ve shaved you ask? Yes, I have mastered the boot shave, the leggings shave, the sandal shave and the t-shirt shave. The boot shave is when you remove any hair above your boot line; the leggings shave is removing hair below your legging line; the sandal shave is a quick and easy one as it involves shaving foot and toes (don’t ask) and the t-shirt shave is removing that bit of hair that shows when you lift your arms with a t-shirt on. Often I neglect this area and have to wear a 3/4 sleeve.

I can’t say Mark appreciates the new natural me. Just the other day he nearly ‘doomed’ my goggo mistaking it for a ginormous tarantula. After the initial trauma of almost being sprayed with a toxic chemical we remembered a hairy situation that had happened a few years earlier.

Mark and his staff had entered the 5FM triathlon. Mark was doing the run, one of the girl’s the swim and someone else the cycle. I joined as the enthusiastic cheerleader. The swimming star got kitted up in her costume which she had probably worn last at a school gala. Fish moths had left a trail of holes and she wasn’t as small or as skinny as she remembered, or hoped. To say it was an unflattering look would be kind. Anyway, off she went to the side of the dam or lake or damn lake and waited with the rest of the competitors. The gun went off, off she went, swimming for all she was worth. I cheered her on enthusiastically and Mark stood, her towel in one hand and a high five waiting in the other.

After waht seemed like forever, she made her way out of the water. Mark handed her her towel, which was also a little smaller than she remembered. It just covered her body. We noticed all the swimmers were covered in a slimy goo, like seaweed. Some had more than others. Some had so much they resembled the scary creatures from the TV show “Under The Mountain”. Mark’s team member was covered in the goo too. He pulled some from her hair and off her arms. There was some on her shoulder which he removed as well. Then he noticed some on her leg, mid thigh or thereabouts. He pulled. It didn’t move. He pulled harder still. Giving it one last tug, he realized too late that it was attached. What he thought was sea slime was actually a healthy tuft of (long) pubic hair. She screamed with pain. He screamed with fright. And I screamed with laughter.

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