Small colour cartoon tattoo of a figure in a yellow hat pushing a green lawn mower, on the scalp of a bald man seen from behind.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Cartoon mower pusher on a scalp

Other · Colour · Photo

A small cartoon figure in a yellow cap and red shoes pushes a green lawn mower across the scalp of a bald man photographed from behind. The tattoo uses simple, outlined linework with flat areas of yellow, red, green and blue. It sits in the upper area of the head against grey hair and skin, and the rest of the frame is plain and unfocused.

Other Cartoon

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

You inherit the mower from Mr Okafor on the ninth floor of Haverley House the week the council stops paying for the grass verges. It is a green rotary thing with a cracked handle and a grassbox that smells of two summers of clover. Nobody asks you to mow anything. The strip between the bins and the noticeboard has gone to dandelions, and the kids have taken to playing football on the concrete instead, which is how Jordan ends up with a knee like a plum.

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On Saturday a boy in a yellow cap waits by the lift, red trainers scuffed grey at the toes. He says his name is Dean, he is nine, and he has come about the mower. You tell him no. He says it was his granddad's, that Grandad pushed it round the estate every Sunday until his legs went, and that he knows how to hold the handle down so the blades don't jump. You think about saying no again. Then you hand it over, because the handle is taller than him and he doesn't complain about that once.

He mows in straight lines, bent forward, tongue between his teeth. You follow behind with the bin bags and the rake. By the time the light goes orange over the car park, the strip is a pale green stripe with bare earth where the dandelions were, and Dean is grinning with cut grass stuck to his sleeves. His mum appears on a third-floor balcony, ready to shout, and then just stands there with her hand over her mouth.

Next Sunday the mower is back against the lift doors, grassbox emptied, handle wrapped in fresh tape. Nobody has asked you to mow anything. You do it anyway, and you walk the line behind the blades, and you don't look up at the balconies, though you can feel them watching.