Zohan smiled. It was not a nice smile.
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 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.” watch don't mess with the zohan
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.
“The cat looked fabulous,” Zohan said, finally turning. His eyes, warm and brown a moment ago, now held the flat calm of a man who’d once disarmed a missile with a bottle of Pantene. Zohan smiled
The bell on the door jingled. In walked three men who clearly hadn’t come for a wash and style. They wore stiff suits, earpieces, and the kind of scowls that screamed we break kneecaps for a living . The leader, a thick-necked brute named Dmitri, cracked his knuckles.
“You are the one they call… Zohan?” Dmitri asked, his accent somewhere between Siberian frost and Jersey asphalt. But he slipped on a puddle of leave-in
Dmitri laughed. “What magic? You cut hair.”