The battle took place in the private salon on Steve's property, 5000 square feet of the best shampoos, conditioners, serums, and flat irons money can buy. It also has plenty of space, so that Steve could throw dance parties in it if he ever got the inkling. Or kick someone's ass as was the case in this situation.
Jon arrived wearing a getup that looked akin to Van Helsing's costume. His weapons of choice were a jumbo can of Aqua Net, which everybody knows can shellac everything from your hair to a baby monkey, and a family-size bottle of John Frieda's Frizz-Ease. Amateur. Steve knew that it would be an easily-won fight, but decided to humor Jon so he could lose with dignity. His weapons of choice were ultra-hold gel (the kind that turns your hair into plastic), a blow-drier that blew air at speeds that weren't legal, and a flat-iron. His outfit of choice? This one.
Jon looked Steve up and down and smirked. "You might as well quit now, old man," he said. "Bon Jovi doesn't fight fair."
"Bon Jovi is the name of your band," responded Steve. "Is your entire band here? Nope. It's just you and me, son, so you better start referring to yourself as Jon."
"Bon Jovi is my last name," Jon replied.
"I thought it was Bongiovi," Steve said.
"Your mom's name is Bongiovi."
"You sonofabitch!" Steve screamed. Jon had crossed a line. NOBODY talked about Steve's mother like that, and those who did elicited an angry reaction of Hulk-like proportions. Quick as a cat, he pointed the blow-drier at Jon and turned it on, sending his opponent careening to the opposite end of the salon. Stunned and shaky, John got to his knees.
"Go ahead! Say something else about my mom! Go ahead!" Steve taunted.
Jon quickly got his bearings and raced back to Steve, pulling out the can of Aqua Net. He aimed, and hit Steve squarely on the forehead and shellaced his face for fifteen minutes.
"Hahaha! Your face is frozen, sucka!" Jon yelled triumphantly, doing the Dance of Joy victoriously. Watching Steve careening around the salon in confusion, he grinned wickedly as he pulled out the Frizz-Ease and prepared to squirt it all over the ground with the intent that Steve would slip, fall, and lose.
"Get ready to kiss that precious title good-bye," he said, shaking the Frizz-Ease bottle for nothing more than dramatic effect. "By the way--your hair looks like a cheap weave."
Suddenly Steve stopped careening, and in one fluid motion took out his bottle of ultra-hold gel and squired Jon mercilessly until he turned into plastic and fell over backwards.
"Silly boy, you can't freeze my face," he said, towering over the lifeless Jon and removing the hairspray which had congealed into some sort of mask. "It's like butter. And while I will always and forever hold the title of best hair, don't stop believin'. These battles liven up my day. Also, you just got Journey-ed."
With that, he packed up Plastic Jon and shipped him back to Richie Sambora, who, upon opening the package, curled up in the fetal position on his bathroom floor, stuck his thumb in his mouth, and stayed in that position for three days. When he finally emerged from his self-inflicted coma, he found Jon, once again human, chain-smoking crack and shaking. Neither one had anything to do with Steve Perry ever again.