Recently, I had a kind of funny dream about Johnny Weir, a free-spirit figure skater who had United States Figuring Skating officials tearing their hair out in his competition days. I have been a fan of his skating, and was sometimes frustrated that he had a lot of ups and downs and didn't quite reach his full potential. These days, he's a TV commentator for figure skating and other events.
In this dream, Weir took a different career path after skating, and became a hairstylist with his own studio in some posh neighborhood. He had an ad showing him outfitted in a black and blue Renaissance-style poofy velvet jacket. He stood with fists on his hips, looking fierce like he was ready to do battle with your roots
Apparently, someone was found murdered at a nearby ice rink. Weir swung by the ice rink to play detective (on what qualifications, I have no idea) and find out who killed that person. He brought various people -- coaches, parents, judges and staff -- one by one into a coach's lounge for questioning like Mr. Poirot of Agatha Christie novels. Unfortunately, the dream ended before I got to find out who was the killer.
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