Quatre's spends most of five minutes removing his suit in a stall of the men's restroom and scrubbing himself free of glitter. A thick ring had collected around his neck, where his detachable collar had kept it in place, but the skin's soon pink and mostly glitter free.
(He's gives up on his hair after the first fifteen strokes with a finetoothed comb. It's better, at least.)
He changes into the clothes he got from the bar--a pair of thick linen pants in navy blue, practical shoes in black, a dark grey long-sleeved soft dress shirt, and light-grey-and-navy zip up sweater--and drops his bundle of carefully folded formal clothes on the Bar for safe keeping, pocketing his planner (just in case).
"Oh, and could I get that back without the glitter?" Quatre asks, nodding at the note that appears (as the clothes disappear), and accepting the two additional plastic flashlights with an amused grin, before looking for Trowa.