You set the piece down. They look at it. Good silence — the kind where they're taking it in, not looking for something to say. You've done the job. Enjoy the thirty seconds.
Then give them the piece of paper.
Most woodworkers skip this. Not because they're lazy, but because they think the commission ends when the piece goes out the door. It doesn't. The commission ends when you've transferred everything the client needs to live with the piece for the next fifty years.
A solid wood piece carries a lot of knowledge that lives entirely in your head. You know the species, where you sourced it, and why you picked that board for the top. You know the finish, how many coats, what it's compatible with and what will wreck it. You know the seasonal movement range and exactly what it looks like when the wood pulls back in January. You have MC readings from when the stock went in. You made decisions about grain orientation, float clearances, joint choice — none of which the client knows about or asked about.
When the piece leaves your shop, all of that knowledge stays behind unless you put it on paper.
One page. Not a booklet, not a technical report. One page, printed, handed to the client the same moment you hand them the piece.
Here's what goes on it:
Species and source. What it is, where it came from, what to expect. For a cherry coffee table: American black cherry, flat-sawn top for figure, quartersawn legs for stability. This wood darkens with UV — it's supposed to, and it will be richer for it by next summer. Two sentences. Done.
Finish and care. What you applied, how to clean it, what will damage it. Wipe with a damp cloth. No ammonia cleaners. A light application of furniture oil once a year if they want to maintain the sheen. That's the whole section. You're not writing a manual — you're preventing the one mistake most people make.
Wood movement. This is the section that prevents the twelve-month phone call. Say it plainly: In dry winter conditions, you may see a hairline gap at the ends of the top panel. This is the wood contracting. It will close in spring. It's not a defect. Write it down. Give them the language before they need it. Otherwise you will be on the phone in February explaining something that has a simple answer, to someone who is convinced their furniture is broken.
Your contact information. A good piece lasts decades. It gets passed to a new owner. It needs refinishing. The person who commissioned it dies and their kids don't know who built it. Your name, phone, and email travel with the piece. Twenty years from now, someone will be glad they're there.
That's the whole document. Twenty minutes to write if you kept any notes during the build.
The usual objection: it feels like paperwork. Administrative. The least interesting part of the job.
Rethink that. The document isn't paperwork — it's the colophon. The piece without it is almost complete. The piece with it is finished. The difference is whether the knowledge you put into the object stays embedded and inaccessible, or whether it travels.
There's a practical upside too. Clients who understand that the choices were deliberate tell better stories about the piece. The story they tell includes the document. The document has your name on it. That's how commissions become commissions.
Write it before you load the truck. Print it. Hand it over when you set the piece down.
It takes less time than the drive home.