Small black fine line infinity symbol with leaves on the back of the neck, below a hair bun.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Infinity sign with leaves on the neck

Fine line · Neck · Black and grey · Photo

A photograph from behind of a person with hair tied up in a bun, showing a small tattoo at the base of the neck. The tattoo is an infinity symbol with a thin vine or stem that carries three small leaves. The linework is fine and delicate, in black ink, against plain skin and a light grey top.

Fine line Botanical Neck Infinity Leaves Vine Hair bun

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

The ovens were already ticking when you unlocked the back door of Hollis Lane Bakery, and Mrs Okonedo's note was still pinned to the flour bin: "Starter needs feeding, don't let it sulk." You fed it anyway, two spoons of rye and a splash of water, and watched the grey paste loosen into something alive. Outside, the lane was still black, and the only other light was the bus shelter opposite, where a man in a borrowed coat slept with his hands tucked into his armpits.

Keep reading

By four you had shaped the first batch, a plait you had learned from her, rolled so the strand loops back on itself and never breaks. She called it the figure of eight lying down. "Infinity is just a loaf that remembers where it started," she used to say, dusting her forearms, and you had laughed at her then. Now you pressed the seam closed with your thumb and thought about the vine she had sketched on the back of the order book, three small leaves tacked along the curve like someone who meant to stay.

At half past five the shutter rattled and the sleeping man came in, looking for warmth more than bread. You gave him the heel of yesterday's rye and a cup of tea with too much sugar. He turned the crust over in his hands and said his sister in Leeds used to bake this exact shape, and you realised you had never once asked Mrs Okonedo where she learned it.

The last loaf came out at six, its crust cracked along the loop. You wrapped it in brown paper, wrote her name on the label, and left it on the counter for the morning shift, knowing the first customer would ask why.