Little table.

The sound of the scissors is familiar, but today there is more tension in the air. My hairdresser, who usually works quietly and meticulously, frowns slightly at my head. “It’s not easy,” she says, examining the table balanced on my head. The table barely wobbles, but I feel it with every movement—a slight tilt, the risk that a glass might tip over or a fork might go askew.

“The legs,” I say with a smile that masks my uncertainty, “they have to be just right.” Her eyes slide to the four points that bear the weight of the table. It’s an art to find the right balance, especially without having to re-set the table. Everything is already perfect: the glasses sparkle, the cutlery is in perfect order, and the little plastic plant looks like it came straight from a miniature garden.

She picks up a comb, taps one of the legs gently, and studies the reaction. “This is like carpentry,” she mutters. It seems as if she is forming a plan, but I know how important it is to guide her. “When you start,” I say, “use the leg with the most unevenness as a reference point. Adjust the other one accordingly.” I am proud of the subtle manipulation in my voice; I don’t want to scare her off, but I have to be clear. One wrong snip and my table could wobble like a badly positioned wobbly chair.

She nods, grabs her scissors, and cuts away a small amount. It’s almost nothing, a fraction of a millimeter, but I can feel the difference immediately. It’s as if the table is more stable on my head, less on the edge of balance. “Are you sure I can do this without having to set it again?” I ask softly. She laughs briefly and points to the glasses. “I’m keeping an eye on them. If they start to shake, I know I’m going too far.”

Her precision is admirable. She moves a hair to the left, leans in closer, and snips away another small piece. The plastic plant trembles slightly, but remains steady. The scissors cut again, and this time she bends her knees a little further to examine the corner. Her face is a mixture of focus and fascination. “This is actually quite special work,” she says after a while. “Most people just ask for a little more volume.”

I smile again. “This is no ordinary request,” I say. She grins. “I can tell.” She balances the last leg and pulls back to admire the result. The table feels steadier than ever. The glasses remain still, the cutlery gleams under the salon lights, and the plant seems content.

“It’s perfect,” I say. “And the table didn’t need to be re-set.” She nods proudly. “Finding balance is everything. Whether it’s hair or tables.” As I stand, I feel an unwavering stability above my head. For today, I’m ready to carry the world, table and all.