Location: Some coastline or other. Rocky. Lots of gulls. Smells faintly of salt and existential ennui. The house seems content here for the moment, hasn't tried to slide into the sea yet this week. Progress.

  Right. So. I'm doing this. Keeping a record. A guide, maybe? A compendium of shit that actually works? Call it what you want. After 437 years, you'd think I'd have better things to do. Apparently not. Blame it on terminal boredom and witnessing a village hedge-witch nearly polymorph himself into a puddle yesterday trying a 'simple' weather-proofing charm he found in some offensively optimistic pamphlet. Honestly, the state of practical magic education these days. Tragic.

  So, fine. I'll write down some useful enchantments. The mundane stuff. The charms that stop your roof leaking (mostly), keep the milk from turning into sentient cheese, encourage dust bunnies to piss off somewhere else. The sort of magic that doesn't get you lauded in heroic epics but might stop you from accidentally cursing your own cookware or setting your curtains ablaze. You know, the important shit.

  This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  And because my life is a cosmic fucking joke curated by a deity with a questionable sense of humor, this guide will also, inevitably, have to cover Hair Management. Yes, capital letters. Because this – currently trying to 'helpfully' unscrew the lid of my ink pot with a level of focused determination usually reserved for starting minor apocalypses – isn't just hair. It's a sentient, often malevolent, occasionally helpful (usually by accident), floor-length consequence of questionable life choices made centuries ago. Living with it requires its own unique, infuriating branch of magic, mostly involving wards, pleading, creative bribery, and knowing precisely how hard you can slam a door before the vibrations make it knot itself into a statement of profound follicular disapproval.

  So that's the plan. Documenting small magics and the daily absurdity of cohabiting with several pounds of hyperactive, magically-infused keratin. Maybe someone, somewhere, sometime, will find it useful. More likely, the hair will use the finished pages as nesting material or try to trade it to a passing seagull for a shiny fish skeleton.

  Whatever. Got nothing better to do this century, apparently. Let's see how long I stick with this before I chuck the ink pot at the wall. Place your bets now.