Fine line tattoo of three blue snowflakes descending in a column on the nape of a woman's neck, with her hair tied up in a bun.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Three snowflakes down the nape of the neck

Fine line · Neck · Colour · Photo

Three snowflakes sit in a vertical line on the back of a person's neck, decreasing in size from top to bottom. Each snowflake is drawn with fine, delicate linework and small detailing, shaded in tones that move from grey-blue at the top to brighter blue at the bottom. The soft, out-of-focus background and the grey top keep the focus on the small, centred design.

Fine line Neck Snowflake Winter

Find an artist for this

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 big top came down in the sleet the week before Christmas, and Mr Aldous Fennick stood in the mud with his hat in his hands as if he were waiting to be introduced to it. Eleven wagons, one elephant that had retired to a farm in Lincolnshire, and a ticket office that smelled of wet sawdust and paraffin. We were wintering at Clay Hollow, a field outside Doncaster that nobody wanted for anything else.

Keep reading

My job that season was the ledger. Dad had taught me sums on the backs of old playbills, and I kept the takings in a green book with a broken spine. Every evening I counted coins into paper bags, and every evening there were fewer bags. The snow started on the third of January, and I went out to the lorry with a torch to see how much the tarpaulins could take. Each flake caught the light and went out again, grey where it was high, then bluer as it dropped toward the wet ground.

Ruth, who had walked the high wire since she was nine, found me on the caravan steps with a pair of nail scissors. I was cutting snowflakes from the spare pages of the ledger, folding them small the way Mum used to for the Christmas parade. Ruth held one up to the lamp. "These won't pay the feed bill," she said. "No," I said, "but they're the only thing in here that doesn't need a receipt."

We sold the last of the seats in March. I kept three of the snowflakes tucked inside the front cover of the green book, the largest at the top and the smallest at the bottom, and I still open it when the sums refuse to add up. The ledger balances now, though only just, and somewhere under the grass the old ring is still marked out, waiting for someone to come and count it.