Black and white photo of a shaved head showing a small QR code tattoo on the scalp and the lettering </head> and <body> tattooed on the neck above a dark collar, in a lettering style.

QR code and HTML tags on scalp and neck

Lettering · Neck · Black and grey · Photo

A black and white photograph taken from behind of a shaved head. A small, square QR code is tattooed on the scalp, and the HTML markup '</head>' and '<body>' is tattooed in a plain, bold sans-serif typeface across the back of the neck above a dark collar. The image is sharp and evenly lit, with the tattoos sitting centrally and the background softly blurred.

Lettering Neck Head Text

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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 server room under the Leeds arcade had been quiet since Tuesday, when Priya Dhillon pulled the plug on the old forum and left a sticky note on the rack that said only: don't. Nobody read it. Marcus read everything, so he found it at seven, made tea in the chipped mug, and sat down to the monitors that still glowed the colour of weak lemonade.

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The bug was in the header. Somebody had been writing their own name into the template for eleven years, a long string of tags opened and never closed, and the browsers had been forgiving it the way people forgive a lodger. Marcus scrolled to the top of the file and found the line he expected: a comment, two words, in her looping hand. Keep it open.

He thought about the photograph she had shown him the week before, a man's shaved head from behind, the little square code on the scalp and the words across the neck like a stamped address. She had laughed and said the code went nowhere useful, that it only pointed back to the home page, which was itself. A joke for people who got it. He had not got it then. He understood it now, a little, sitting in the blue light with the rain ticking on the skylight.

He closed nothing. He left the body open, as she had asked, and at ten past eight he typed the one closing tag the file had been missing for a decade, then deleted it, then typed it again. The page loaded clean for the first time in years. Somewhere a bus pulled away from the stop on Briggate, and the cursor blinked, patient, waiting for whatever came next.