Two matching pink bow tattoos on the lower legs, with stencil transfer sheets and ink caps shown in the smaller photos below.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Matching pink bow tattoos on calves

Other · Colour · Photo

A collage of three photographs showing two matching pink bow tattoos on the backs of a pair of lower legs, with solid, softly shaded bow shapes set on a pale blue surface. The lower left photo shows small red ink caps and a pale strip of skin, and the lower right photo shows a stencil transfer sheet with bow outlines and a filled pink bow on it. The ink is a single pink tone, so the colour is clear and even across both tattoos.

Other Bow Ribbon Matching tattoo Stencil Pink

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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

The wasps have found the windfalls before you do, so you walk the rows of Bramley trees with your sleeves pushed up and a colander on your hip. Late August makes the orchard smell of vinegar and warm dust. Your cousin Ruth is three trees ahead, singing something off the wireless, and the pink ribbon you bought from Mrs Attwood's shop is knotted around the handle of your basket where she can see it.

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The show is on Saturday. Ruth has entered her damson cheese and you have entered nothing, because nothing you make ever sets. Your aunt says that is because you stir too much, and you believe her, so you spend the afternoon on the stepladder with a bucket, picking the tight purple fruit that grows highest, where the sun reaches last. Ruth brings you cold tea from the flask. She says she does not mind losing. She says it the way people say things they have practised in the hall mirror.

On Saturday the marquee smells of trestle cloths and wet grass. The judge, a thin man in a grey waistcoat, holds Ruth's jar up to the light and then yours, and it is yours that gets the red rosette, though nobody is more surprised than you. Ruth does not cry. She unties the pink ribbon from the basket, folds it twice, and ties it round the gatepost at the end of the lane, where the two of you used to leave notes for the postman.

That evening you walk back past the orchard with the rosette pinned to your cardigan. The ribbon is still there, lifting in the wind above the stile, and beneath it someone has written in pencil on the wood: best jam, next year, both of us. You leave it where it is.