Before and after close-up of a brow with brown hair-stroke ink added above the eye, shown as a framed two-panel collage.

Eyebrow before and after

Other · Black and grey · Photo

A framed two-panel collage shows a close-up of a brow and upper eyelid, with the top panel showing sparse natural brow hairs and the bottom panel showing a fuller brow filled with fine brown hair-like strokes. The lighting is even and the frame is decorative, with the crop showing only the brow, forehead skin and part of the eye. The ink is a soft brown tone on pale skin.

Other Eyebrow Before and after Eye

Find an artist for this

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

Sit down, the lot of you, and mind the lamp, it has opinions. Four hundred years ago, when the last wet cities still had weather, there was a woman called Orla Penhallow who drew hair for a living. Not on heads. On faces that had lost theirs to the sun and the long years. She went out to the habitat at Marrow Deep with a box of pigments and a hand steady enough to lay down one hair at a time, each stroke leaning the way a real one would lean.

Keep reading

The shaft miners were a stern lot and did not want to look soft. But Orla would sit them under the blue light of the galley and say, the brow is where a face keeps its weather. Lift it and you look surprised. Let it fall and you look tired. Leave it bare and nobody can tell whether you are coming or going. So she gave them ordinary brows, a little wild at the tail and brown as wet bark, and the miners went back down the shaft looking like men who had slept.

Her apprentice, a boy called Idris Vane, asked her once why she never drew two strokes the same. She told him no two hairs on any face are the same, and the whole trick is making them look as though they forgot to be neat. He practised on a scrap of cloth for a year before she let him near a living face. When the air recyclers failed and the galley went dark for three days, the miners sat in the cold with their hands in their laps, and Idris worked by a single candle, because he had learned that people feel better when someone is still busy with their face.

Orla died with the box open on the sill. Idris kept drawing. Every brow on Marrow Deep still points the way she taught him, towards the ear, as if the whole station is listening for something.