Black ink line drawing of a faceless mermaid with long wavy hair, scaled tail and fine hatched fins, shown as a tattoo design without any body placement.

Mermaid line drawing with flowing hair

Fine line · Black and grey · Flash

A faceless mermaid stands upright with long, wavy hair falling past her shoulders and both arms held out to the sides. Her scaled tail curves to one side and ends in two fins, all drawn in fine black linework with small scale patterns and hatched lines. The design is shown in black ink on a plain white background, with the figure centred and filling the frame.

Fine line Mermaid Hair Scale Tail Fin

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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 tank has been drained twice this winter, and each time the pump coughs up another rusted sixpence and a child's wellington. You stand at the glass in the cold light of the side tent, counting the Tuesday crowd through the gap in the flap: eleven, then twelve, then a man with a pram who has no intention of paying. Outside, the big top sags like a wet sheet where the canvas has rotted through over the lion's paddock.

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Mrs Dunmore's costume lives in a tin trunk beneath the ring, folded so the scales won't crack. Each one was cut from old pewter sateen and stitched by hand, row after row, until the tail curves like a hook and ends in two fins that Dunmore swore were lifted from a parasol. The wig is brown wool, combed into waves that fall past the shoulders, and the face painted on the tank wall was never finished because nobody could agree whether a mermaid should look sad or pleased. Arms out, the way you were taught on the high wire, you hold the balance and wait for the whistle.

Harold Cotter sells the whole act to a bowling alley in Margate on Friday, tank included. The last show is Saturday. You go under with the wool hair spread out like weed and the fins beating slow against the glass, and a girl in the front row presses her palm flat to the pane, leaving a small wet star on the other side. For once nobody checks their watch.

Sunday the lorries leave at dawn. You fold the tail into the trunk, scales facing up, and close the lid on the last of the sequins. Before the tent comes down you run a cloth over the empty tank and say goodnight to it the way Mother Ruth always did, in case the water has learned to expect company.