Dmitri laughed. “What magic? You cut hair.”
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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. Dmitri laughed
“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.” Zohan sidestepped, grabbed a bottle of Moroccan oil,
What happened next was less a fight and more a very aggressive hair treatment. Zohan moved like water. He ducked a swinging punch, spun behind Dmitri, and snip-snip-snip —the back of the brute’s suit jacket fell away in ribbons, leaving a neat, tapered V-shape. “Very slimming,” Zohan noted.