Black and grey photo of two small stacked chevrons, a fine line geometric tattoo, on the back of a woman's neck below the hairline.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Double chevron on the back of the neck

Fine line · Neck · Black and grey · Photo

A black and white photograph taken from behind shows a woman with her hair pulled up, revealing two small upward-pointing chevrons tattooed at the nape of her neck. The linework is thin and crisp, with solid black ink and no shading. The tattoo sits near the centre of the frame against plain skin, with a blurred indoor background and a shoulder in a dark top at the edges.

Fine line Geometric Neck Chevron Arrow Minimal

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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

Tuesday, 14 October. Wind backing south-west, force five, gusting six off the Haddock Rocks. The lamp mechanism stuck again at quarter past two, so I went up with the oil can and the small brass key Mr Pellow left in the drawer marked SPARES, which I have decided is a joke. Two chevrons on the glass where the salt has eaten it, pointing the way the wind wants to go, and I stood there a good while trying to remember whether the lamp turns clockwise or the other way.

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Wednesday. Relief boat did not come. Mrs Gossage from the harbour office rang the telephone at the foot of the tower to say the swell was too high to put in at Porthkerris and would I please stop asking. I told her I had not asked anything. She said that was what worried her. I have been reading the old keepers' ledgers in the cupboard by the stairs. Every one of them, in every hand, records the same small thing at dusk: lamp lit, glass clean, arrows drawn in the margin pointing up. Nobody explains them. I suspect they were only tallying the hours.

Thursday. Clear at last. The mechanism turned sweetly after a drop of oil and a curse. From the gallery I could see the lights of the Porthkerris fishing fleet coming round the headland, one after another, each one steering by this tower the way the old men steered by their own. I counted them twice to be sure none had gone missing. Eleven. Eleven, and the kettle boiling below, and nobody on the gallery but me to point them home.