Five minutes of you.
The AI does the building.
Short answers, not an essay. It reads your website and your Instagram for the rest, then builds your front desk and calls you so you can hear it. Here is every question it actually asks a shop.
Six questions about your shop.
Keep every answer to a sentence or two. A long answer isn't a better receptionist — it's a vaguer one.
Who's on the floor
Each artist's name, and the styles they actually take. This is the whole routing engine — fine line goes to the fine line artist, not to whoever has a gap.
For example
“Marisa — fine line, botanical, script. Dev — traditional, blackwork, cover-ups.”
What the shop won't do
Hands, faces, necks, names, under-18 anything, other artists' work. Say it once and it holds the line on every call without a debate.
For example
“No hand or face work. No cover-ups of another shop's fresh work.”
Your deposit policy
In your words — what it is, whether it comes off the price, and what happens if they no-show. It explains it and sends them your link; it never takes card details.
For example
“Deposit holds the date, comes off the final price, non-refundable inside 48 hours.”
Walk-ins and consults
Which days you take walk-ins, how long a consult runs, and whether a consult is needed before a big piece is booked at all.
For example
“Walk-ins Thursday to Saturday. Consults 30 minutes, required over four hours.”
Your aftercare sheet
The instructions you already hand people. It reads those back and nothing else — no improvising, no opinion on whether something looks infected.
For example
“Whatever's on the card you give clients on their way out.”
What's worth interrupting you for
One sentence, your words. Everything on it reaches you while the caller is still on the line; everything else waits in writing.
For example
“A client who thinks a healing piece is infected, or a same-day cancellation to fill.”
Three steps, and you approve the last one.
Answer the six
The questions above. Five minutes at the desk between appointments, and you never have to touch it again unless you want to.
You hear it first
We call you and you talk to it like a client would. Ask it what a sleeve costs. Tell it you're seventeen. It goes live only when you say it sounds like your shop.
Forward the shop line
One short code on the shop handset, and the number on your sign starts getting answered. Nothing gets reprinted.
A shop changes. So does it.
An artist leaves, a guest comes in for a fortnight, you stop taking hand work, the deposit goes up. You open your dashboard, change the sentence, and publish — about a minute, and it costs nothing. Editing your own receptionist has never been billable, because a shop that’s afraid to touch it ends up with one that’s wrong.
Five minutes,
between appointments.
Nothing goes live until you've heard it and said yes.