Small black fine line tattoo of open scissors on the side of a finger, on a hand with dark nail polish.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Scissors tattoo on a finger

Fine line · Hand · Black and grey · Photo

A small black outline of open scissors sits on the side of a finger, near the middle joint. The linework is thin and even, with no visible shading, and the solid black ink stands out against the skin. The hand is in sharp focus against a blurred salon-style background with a grey cabinet and a dark chair.

Fine line Hand Scissors

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

Tobias Quarmby kept his shears in a green baize case that smelled of machine oil and cloves, and he would not let anybody else lift them out. They had been ground so often in Sheffield that the blades had gone thin as a mackerel's back, and when they closed they made a sound like a breath let out slowly through the teeth.

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Nell Ashdown was fifteen the winter she first took them from the case without asking. She had been sent to cut the worsted for the Saturday suits, and in her hurry she let the blade run past the chalk line by the width of a fingernail. The jacket front came out lopsided. Tobias said nothing. He only laid the cloth over her table again and pointed at the chalk.

For a year she cut nothing but paper. Newspaper, brown wrapping, the spare pages of the ledger, each one pinned to a dummy and cut and cut until the edges sat true without a pencil guide. Her wrists ached and the cold came through the floorboards, and twice she swore she would take the train back to the Wicker and work the cutlery wheels instead. Then one morning in February he took a pair of dove-grey trousers off the bench, turned them inside out, ran his thumb along a seam she had cut with the shears held open, and grunted, which in that shop was a speech.

He died the spring after, in the chair by the stove with his boots still on. Nell took the shears out of the baize case, closed them once, and hung them on the brass nail above the cutting table, where the paint had worn pale from years of his hand reaching up for them. Customers still ask her for the old man's cut. She tells them the blades have forgotten him, and that she is still learning how to make them listen.