Pencil-style drawing of a princess with long flowing hair, decorated with red and yellow roses, in a neo-traditional tattoo design with no body placement shown.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Princess with roses in her hair design

Neo-trad · Mixed · Flash

A drawing of a young woman with long, flowing hair and a crown-like arrangement of red and yellow roses. The face and hair are rendered in soft grey shading and fine linework, with the body and flowers picked out in colour. The figure fills the centre of a plain white background, with roses also trailing down at the lower left and right.

Neo-trad Princess Woman Rose Flower Long hair Crown

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

Dad had the allotment behind the pit baths, the one strip of ground on Ashworth Row where nothing was meant to grow, and every July he cut the reds for the show tent before the dew was off them. My job was the crown. Mam had a tin of hairpins and a rule that a girl going up to the gala stood still and let her hair be done. I wound the yellow ones low at the back and the reds above, pinning each stem with a twist of wire, then checked myself in the glass of the bus shelter as if I were someone out of Mam's storybook, the one with the glass slipper and the stepmother who never got her comeuppance.

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The judges gave the cup to Mrs Hollis from the colliery office, whose yellows had come by post from a nursery in Doncaster. Dad said nothing about it. He carried his own blooms home in a jam jar and set them on the kitchen sill, where the late sun came through the petals like paper lanterns. That evening Maureen Pell came to the back door in her housecoat, asking if there were any roses to spare, because her Tommy had gone down the shaft on the Monday and not come up, and the chapel ladies wanted something for the coffin.

Dad cut every red bloom left on the bush and wrapped them in newspaper. I carried them across the cinder path myself, my hands going cold through the paper. Maureen took them without a word and laid them on the lid, where the varnish had worn pale from years of other people's hands. The petals were already dropping onto the boards, one at a time, and nobody swept them up.