A visit to the labyrinth: Getting a haircut in Cuenca

I always get my hair cut at Feria Libre. Not because I’m faithful to one barber. In fact I never sit in the same chair twice, and, without exception, it’s always a woman doing the cutting. The stalls all trumpet “Unisex Service,” though in practice that seems to mean women with clippers and men with crates of bananas.

This time my barber was an older woman with tattoos winding up her arms, each one looking like it held a story she might or might not tell. She gave me a quick once-over, flicked on the clippers, and said, “Supongo que será un número dos.” That was that.

For $2.50 she gave me a cut sharper than most I’d paid ten times more for elsewhere. She unwrapped a fresh razor blade to square off the edges with the precision of a mason laying stone, then finished with a glob of gel to cement the work in place. A practical masterpiece, signed and sealed.

The real challenge came after. Feria Libre, for all its straight corridors and numbered gates, can feel like a maze.

My way out was suddenly blocked by a hefty young woman with spiky hair who looked as though she’d just stepped out of a video game. She eyed me and asked, “¿Qué buscas?” I answered, “La salida.” She nodded, stepped aside, and pointed toward a distant gate where daylight streamed in. The path was perfectly straight, but it felt like I had just solved a riddle.

People online say that Feria Libre is a den of thieving, and yet above your head are security cameras and many of the stalls are equipped with alarm buzzers to summon uniformed guards. And there is a police station conveniently located right next door. You may lose your way in the maze of stalls, but you’re not very likely to lose your wallet or your cell phone.

And so I stepped back into the sunlight, neat, tidy, and only $2.50 poorer.