My first kimono filled me with disappointment, something that I’m sure that many kimono collectors and fellow wafuku enthusiasts would be aghast at hearing.
I had moved to Japan roughly six months prior. I had survival level Japanese and, true to every negative stereotype of English teachers in Japan, I used the freedom that came from it to drink too much and party away my money.
It’s not that unusual, I think. The first few heady months in a new country, with money in your pocket, new flavors to be tasted, and new people to meet – you can soon end up frittering your time away as though you’re on an extended vacation instead of doing something a little more meaningful. That changed as I headed into my second year here.
Don’t get me wrong. Anyone who knows me will tell you that I am far from the blushing yamato nadeshiko even now. I still drink more than I perhaps should, eat out more than I eat in and virtually chain smoke my way through any social gathering.
But still… I love the idea of the yamato nadeshiko. I love the idea of becoming something more feminine, something softer around the edges. My style in western clothes had long reflected this fact. I steered clear of bold colors. No flashy reds or electric blues to be found in my wardrobe, thank you. Only those pastel shades and neutrals for me.
But something about kimono and the culture surrounding it was always in the back of my mind, the longer I spent in Japan.
I had danced yosakoi the previous summer/autumn. I remember them dressing me in an almost violent shade of purple and red, with the loudest, craziest designs on our happi. I remember thinking that I looked washed out and ghost-like, but the Japanese old ladies who danced with me assured me that I looked fantastic. Looking back now, the purple headband really did bring out the green of my eyes. Contrasts are more important than complements in yosakoi.
During winter, yosakoi stops practice. It’s a festival dance, and after October there are no more festivals in the area that require that specific form of dance. I went from rehearsing dance for eight hours a week, to nothing. It’s no wonder that I became somewhat of a regular at the local bar.
One of my friends at the bar was a Japanese girl who had an interest in speaking English. She came to a number of drinking parties dressed in kimono, which we all fawned over, alcohol and cigarettes held at arm’s length so as not to stain something that seemed so precious. She mentioned that her grandmother taught dance too and invited us to come along.
It is at this point I’m ashamed to say that I had no idea what I was getting myself into. I had seen Kabuki before. Without knowing it, I had also seen the style of dance I was about to learn too. Even so, I threw on my comfy clothes and headed over to her grandmother’s house one Thursday night to see what it was all about.
Her grandmother was, and is, an interesting character. She is stern, but still quick to smile. She is critical, but also fast to offer praise. She wears kimono with a grace I am almost certain I will never possess and she glides when she dances like a swan. I remember that first class being exhilarating as I watched various dances by other students and thought to myself “Well, that doesn’t look so hard…”.
Ah, arrogance.
At the end of the class we were presented with a list of costs to start dancing. We would be expected to wear kimono, and we would be expected to be able to dress ourselves.
I remember choking a little at the expense, but agreeing. I handed over my ¥20,000 and dreamed of the kimono for the next week. Our teacher said she would pick out and coordinate everything. All we had to worry about was turning up the following Thursday ready to learn.
And thus, the following Thursday I returned to the large house in the middle of the rice paddies and headed up to the kimono studio. A friend, who had signed up with me, received hers first. A beautiful black and floral kimono with a pastel obi that pretty much screamed cuteness.
Then I opened mine.
Purple.
If there’s one color that I, as a redhead, avoid like the plague, it’s purple. I end up looking translucently pale. Not just that, the design wasn’t cute floral designs, or a pretty landscape or anything I’d expected. Brown arrows. Just brown arrows running vertically down the fabric.
The obi, however, was gorgeous and even though it’s definitely been through some wear-and-tear in the year I’ve worn it, it’s as gorgeous now as the day I unwrapped it.
I swallowed my disappointment, graciously thanked my teacher and set about learning how to dress myself. I struggled through dressing myself in a kimono I personally thought was ugly and unflattering, brow furrowed as I tried to look beyond my own chest to tighten knots and straighten flaps of fabric I barely knew the names of.
Summer was a relief. I was allowed to wear yukata, and so that’s what I did. I went a little crazy buying new yukata, though I was grateful when July hit and I was needing to wash the yukata after every practice as my sweat sank through all the layers.
These yukata were all cute. Goldfish were a recurring theme for me. Goldfish and cute flowers and silver threads running through them. I finally felt “pretty” in kimono.
And yet the name of this blog is not “kingyokimono” or “yukataqueen”. It’s yagasuri. Named after the arrow design of my first kimono.
When October faded, and with it the last of the heat, we switched back to kimono. With fresh eyes, I looked at my faithful dance partner. It had not frayed. It had no loose threads. It was sturdy, and simple. Perhaps a little blunt, but also a rather serious garment.
“It suits you,” my teacher would say every time I put it on. Perhaps a little bit of Japanese politeness, but I don’t think it’s false flattery.
You see, as I improved at dancing and at dressing myself, this kimono moved through the stages with me. Every week, it waited at my teacher’s house like an old friend. No matter what changes happened in my life, the good old yagasuri kimono would hang there, waiting for the day I’d be mature enough to appreciate it.
I can say now, from the bottom of my heart, I can. I like it’s clean lines, that make lining it up along the front and back so easy. I like the way that the purple makes my skin pale. Most of all, I like the fact it’s actually long enough, unlike so many of the kimono that I have had to wear that didn’t fit.
We have grown together, this yagasuri kimono and me, and I feel it will always have a special place in my collection, even when my dancing days are over.
- Wafuku – Japanese style clothes.
- Yamato Nadeshiko – a woman who embodies the perfect feminine qualities in Japan.
- Yosakoi – the national dance of Japan and a high-energy, exuberant folk dance.
- Happi – A Japanese style coat.
- Kabuki – A Japanese play often with elaborate dances and costumes.
Yagasuri Kimono 