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.
Zohan stood in the center of the salon, shears held loosely at his side. The three men were frozen—partly in pain, partly in sheer humiliation. Dmitri touched his new pink Mohawk and whimpered. watch don't mess with the zohan
“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.” Dmitri roared and threw a punch