“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.”
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.
The poodle wagged its tail. Somewhere outside, a car screeched away in terror. And in the quiet of his salon, Zohan began to hum a cheerful Israeli pop song, the shears glinting in the afternoon light. watch don't mess with the zohan
“You are the one they call… Zohan?” Dmitri asked, his accent somewhere between Siberian frost and Jersey asphalt.
“Now,” he said softly. “Where were we?” “Now,” Zohan said, brushing a stray hair from
Zohan smiled. It was not a nice smile.
Dmitri paled. There were fates worse than death. This was one of them. And you will tell him this: I do not fight anymore
Zohan didn’t look up. “For you, I am Zohan. Or if you prefer, ‘He Who Makes the Split Ends Cry.’ Please, sit. You need a trim. Very dry. Like a Brillo pad made of sadness.”