I needed a haircut, and Neil Gaiman was standing there with a pair of scissors, tapping them against one palm much like one might do with a baseball bat.
I ran my hand through my hair, wondering if I trusted him to cut it.
Then I said, "Of course you do, silly; what else does he do besides cut hair? He's a hair stylist, isn't he?" But a "something isn't right here" thought niggled at me all the while.
And then the dream moved on and I have no idea if I came away well-coiffed or not...