Thursday, 18:38. Back-to-back installs since noon.
The last client just left. In your head: an exact spec, a skin reaction you must never repeat, and a follow-up you'll forget by Friday. Here's the same evening, with a second brain.
The last client of the day
Marcus. Reinstall plus trim, an attachment change, and a hairline reaction you must never repeat. Normally this gets scribbled somewhere between sweeping up and locking the door — and half of it is gone by the weekend.
The note — in your words, not a form
“Marcus, reinstall plus trim. Switched him to tape only, no more glue — he got redness along the hairline again last time with the liquid adhesive. Check in with him in two weeks.”
Twenty seconds, spoken while you sweep. That's the entire data entry.
The pick — it refuses to guess
There are two Marcuses in your book, so match confidence lands below 0.9 — and the review is blocked until you choose. Wrong-client is the worst error in this work. Nothing pre-merges.
The review — every field shows its evidence
One tap, one transaction. Until it, nothing was saved — and every accept, edit and reject writes an audit row.
Marcus feels remembered.
A check-in draft is waiting in your voice. Next to it, a reorder card shows its arithmetic: 10-week cycle, last order 14 June — due soon. Approve, modify, or dismiss. Nothing is ever ordered automatically — the new system simply arrives before the old one goes flat.
Not data entry after a ten-hour day. A twenty-second note in your own words — turned into memory that never drops what your clients trust you to hold.
