You're not open for another hour, and you're still looking for your coffee, but Everly is already awake on your phone. She has been through the overnight changes, the booking that moved and the number worth a glance, and set aside the one thing she thinks you'll want to see first. You ask her about it the way you'd text a business partner.
Morning, Maya. Two things are waiting for your OK, and Tuesday is looking quiet again. Want the short version of today?
Three people this week asked about a service you offer that isn't listed on your site yet. I can draft the update whenever you like.
Now and then something comes up that she was simply never told, like whether you take appointments on a Sunday. Instead of guessing, she holds the question and brings it to you. Everything she is sure of lives on one page: your hours, your prices, the one day you keep for yourself. You can look it over and fix anything that has changed.
Everything I've learned about Petal and Co., in one place. Correct me anytime. I'd rather be fixed than wrong.
Do you take appointments on Sundays? I don't have anything on that yet, so before I use it anywhere I'd rather ask than guess.
Between everything else, she spots the patterns you can't: the slow Tuesdays, the service you never listed. She writes the fix, then waits on your yes.
What I'm seeing in your week's rhythm, and what I'd do about it. Every idea waits for your OK.
Here's the shape of today. Nine appointments, first at 9, last at 5:30. Rosa is in at 2, her first visit since February, so a warm welcome will go a long way.
Tuesdays run about half as full as the rest of your week. A small offer could fill them.
Drafted and waiting under Needs your OK.Reviews are climbing. Nine new this month, five stars all but one.
Drafted and waiting under Needs your OK.Three people asked about a service this week that isn't listed on your site.
Drafted and waiting under Needs your OK.back this week: follow-ups, the inbox, and the recall texts you approved. That's a real evening at home.
Everything here is ready and waiting. Nothing moves without you.
Every message uses their name and their last visit. Nothing has gone out.
There are twelve clients you haven't seen since March, and she has written each of them a note in your voice, one that uses her name and remembers the last time she came in. Then she stops and waits, because nothing actually gets sent until you've approved. Read each message, edit if needed, or send all twelve at once.