Today I showed up sweaty. My legs had bike grease on them. I had helmet hair. And I ducked into an alley to change into a relatively non-sweaty dry-wick shirt while I looked for somewhere to chain up my bike. They let me in, sweaty mess and all, and my hairdresser asked towards the end of the appointment as she was going to blow dry my hair and style it - "you're not biking home after this, are you?"
In another shining example of how Mr. Sweetie got his moniker, I was not going to be biking home and ruining my new hairstyle. Mr. Sweetie came and picked me up instead.