Black and grey bow tattoo with shaded loops and outlined ribbon tails on the nape of a person's neck, with hair pulled up to one side.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Bow tattoo on the nape of the neck

Neck · Black and grey · Photo

A small bow with outlined loops and tails sits on the nape of the neck, with the centre knot and ribbon ends shaded in grey. The photograph is black and white and shows the back of the head, a hand with dark nail polish gathering the hair, and part of an ear. The tattoo is centred in the frame, with the hair and hand framing it on the left.

Neck Bow Ribbon

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Take it to an artist as a reference. A good artist will make it yours rather than copy someone else's tattoo.

A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

At ten past three the ward goes quiet in the way you have learned to distrust, the monitors keeping their own time behind the curtains. You are sitting at the drug trolley with the donated teddies Mrs Okafor brought in on Tuesday, forty of them, each still smelling of the shop. Nobody has asked you to do anything with them. You have a spool of red ribbon from the stationery cupboard and a pair of nail scissors that are not supposed to leave the treatment room.

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Bed six is awake. Kieran, seven, has his drip arm strapped to a board and wants to know whether the bear in the bag is his. You tell him it is for whoever needs it most on the morning round, which is a lie you tell well. He asks you to tie one for him, so you loop the ribbon, cross it, pull it through, and the first bow comes out lopsided, one tail longer than the other. He laughs at it. You unpick it and try again, the way your gran taught you at the kitchen table in Hull, pinching the loops between thumb and finger until the knot sits square.

By five the bears are done, and the sky over the car park has gone the colour of dishwater. You tie the last bow on the handle of the carrier bag and stand back to look at it. Kieran is asleep with one hand open on the blanket. The handover sheet waits on the desk for the day staff, who will arrive at seven with their coats still wet from the bus stop. You write nothing about the bows on it.

On your way out you pass the bag by the lift. Someone has already moved it, and the ribbon has lifted a little in the draught from the doors, the two tails lifting and settling again as if they were breathing.