Fine line black tattoo of a bobby pin on the inner wrist of a woman with long blonde wavy hair.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Bobby pin tattoo on the inner wrist

Fine line · Forearm · Black and grey · Photo

A small black tattoo of a bobby pin sits on the inner wrist, drawn as a single thin outline with a wavy, crimped edge. The linework is even and the design is solid black with no shading or colour. The wrist is shown against a black top and long blonde hair, with the tattoo centred in the frame.

Fine line Forearm Outline

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

The wind came over Hallan Ness the week the boats were out, and it took the roof clean off the Mackay byre and two hens with it. Marta Solvei stood in the yard with her hair whipping across her face and a mouthful of pins, because a woman with loose hair in a gale is a woman who loses her thinking. She had one grip she trusted above the rest, a flat strip of tin she had bent on her father's anvil and crimped along one edge so it would bite like a row of small waves.

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She drove it into the wind's own hair, the grey streaming stuff that lay over the dunes, and the gale stopped mid-shriek, astonished. It was a long time before the wind spoke, and when it did it sounded like someone trying to whistle through a broken reed. "You have pinned me," it said. "What do you want for letting go?" Marta looked past it to the harbour, where five black hulls were still a long way out and the light was going. "Bring them home," she said. "All of them."

The wind considered this. Then it pulled, hard, and the tin grip came loose and went spinning up into the dark, and the sea lay down like a dog. The boats came in on the slack tide, one after another, and Marta counted every man aboard twice on the slipway. Nobody on Hallan ever found the grip again, though the old men say the wind wears it still, somewhere in its tangled hair.

When a gale comes over the Ness, the fishermen tell their sons to watch the spray where it breaks on the skerries. Now and then a single bright crimp of light rides the foam, rising and falling with the swell, and that is the wind keeping hold of something of ours.