Dmitri paled. There were fates worse than death. This was one of them.
“Now,” Zohan said, brushing a stray hair from his shoulder. “You will go back to Boris. You will tell him that Zohan sends his regards. And you will tell him this: I do not fight anymore. I style . But if he sends more men…” Zohan leaned in close, his voice a whisper. “Next time, I give them all the Karen cut. Short in the back. Long in the front. And bangs. Crooked bangs.” watch don't mess with the zohan
“Boris wants you gone,” Dmitri snarled. “Or he sends you to the hospital. In pieces.” Dmitri paled
Dmitri roared and threw a punch. Zohan sidestepped, grabbed a bottle of Moroccan oil, and sprayed it directly into the man’s eyes. While Dmitri howled and rubbed, Zohan worked fast. He moussed, he gelled, he blow-dried. When he was done, Dmitri’s thick, greasy hair stood straight up in a luminous pink Mohawk. “Now,” Zohan said, brushing a stray hair from
“So fluffy,” Zohan murmured, running his fingers through the dog’s fur. “Like a cloud that has seen things.”
The third goon, seeing this, turned to run. But he slipped on a puddle of leave-in conditioner and crashed headfirst into a display of organic combs.
Zohan sighed. He picked up his favorite pair of shears—the titanium ones he used for precision layering. Then he looked at Dmitri.