Conversations with barbers

I have told before of the barber who came round from behind me to look me in the eyes and say "You actually were a member of the Saint Germaine night club where Sydney Bechet played?" This barber was himself a clarinetist for a local swing band. I don't think Bechet was there the nights I attended but he might have been.
A local barber called himself Andre, French style; he was always ready to converse, eager to know what I was doing these days etc. At that time I had a beard which he trimmed free. "It's like this," he said, "who's to know where sideburns end and a beard starts; people argue that sideburns are not beards, therefore should be considered to be part of the hair on the head. So, for the quiet life, I treat sideburns and beards as 'hair on the head' and don't charge extra."
He told me he often went to London but he didn't stay in hotels; he stayed at Heathrow Airport. "You take your sleeping bag there and bed down for the night; in the morning you get up, shave etc and have breakfast in the cafe." Good idea I thought, may try it sometime. Never did.
A barber close to the centre of the city liked to chat: "what d'you do? Hah! teacher eh? I was never any good in school. Always being caned by the headmaster, the sadist."
"Well you've done well for yourself," I said, "owning this place."
"S'pose so," he said. "Been here before?"
"Yes," I said. "She cut my hair last time, pointing to the barber next to us.
He lowered his voice: "She's not a she, she's a he."