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.
“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
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. The bell on the door jingled
Dmitri slammed a photograph on the counter. It showed a man with a scarred face and dead eyes. “This is Boris. You humiliated him in the underground cat-fighting league last year. You did not fight his cat. You gave his cat a… a bob cut.” The leader, a thick-necked brute named Dmitri, cracked
