The second goon lunged with the taser drill. Zohan caught his wrist, whispered “ no static ,” and used the man’s own momentum to whirl him into a barber chair. In three seconds flat, the man’s wild, unkempt beard was sculpted into a perfect Van Dyke. “Better,” Zohan said. “Now you look like a poet. A violent, confused poet.”

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.”

Zohan watched them go, then turned back to the poodle. He picked up his comb.

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.

“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.”

“Now,” he said softly. “Where were we?”

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.

“You have made a mistake,” Zohan said softly. “You came to my place of peace. My sanctuary of snip-snip. And you threatened… the magic.”