Colour neo-traditional tattoo of a rearing unicorn in purple, orange and yellow inside a black circle dotted with stars, placed on the side of the hip and upper thigh.

Unicorn in a starry circle on the hip

Neo-trad · Thigh · Colour · Photo

A rearing unicorn with flowing mane and a pink muzzle sits centrally inside a black circle scattered with small white stars. The unicorn is outlined in bold lines and filled with flat, graded purple, orange and yellow tones, with a warm orange band at the lower edge of the circle. Two views show the tattoo on the side of the body, one close and one from further away with a patterned dress and a hand visible.

Neo-trad Thigh Unicorn Star Circle Horse Mane

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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 flour hangs in the back room light long after the sack is empty, and the sky above the yard is still the black of a cold oven when you slide the bolt. Ruth has left the mixers running with nobody at them, which means she has gone to sit in the van with her tea and her crossword. You switch on the strip lights one bank at a time, the way she taught you, so the dough does not get a fright.

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The sign above the proving racks is the first thing you ever painted here: a rearing horse with a horn, set inside a black circle because Ruth insisted a bakery should look like it has been up all night. You put the stars in with a dry brush and a cocktail stick, a dot for each one you could remember from your nan's back step. The horse came out purple because the tin of blue was empty, and Ruth said it suited a loaf with a bit of attitude.

Ten past four, the fox is at the bins again, and the ovens take their time. You shape the batch by feel, folding each round three times and pressing the seam shut with the heel of your hand. The skylight goes from black to navy to a thin grey that is almost nothing, and the oven door throws a warm band across the floor the colour of the sign's lower edge.

At twenty to six you load the peel and slide the first tray in. The van door bangs. Ruth comes through with her cardigan pulled over her head against the cold, looks at the sign, looks at you, and says the horse has been holding its breath all night. You take the bread out at quarter past six, and the crusts crackle as they cool, and the horse on the wall looks like it might finally be ready to bolt.