Japanese Schoolgirl Confidential - Brian Ashcraft

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company Petite Leda does just that. Mini blazers, tiny skirts, small sailor suits—you name it.

      Petite Leda began crafting one-of-a-kind pint-sized school uniforms after blushing brides wanted a way to memorialize their student years. Former schoolgirls can have the company make the mini clothes from the original fabric—even using their uniform’s actual buttons. For those unwilling to part ways with their precious schoolgirl threads, Petite Leda will find matching fabric. They’ll even sew the former schoolgal’s name on the miniature uniform’s inside, just like the real deal.

      According to Petite Leda, the 15-inch (38 cm) high get-ups are extremely tricky to make, with the uniform collars and the sleeves being the most difficult. Since each is different, there isn’t a set pattern per se, meaning that Petite Leda’s expert seamstresses must try to capture the essence of the original uniform as a small-scale replica. Quality craftsmanship like this ain’t cheap: the pint-sized replicas cost 31,500 yen (US$320). The mini clothes are available as stand-alones or versions fitted to small teddy bears.

      PETITE LEDA

      Middle-Aged Sailor-Suit Dude

      DURING THE WEEK, fifty-year-old Hideaki Kobayashi is a computer engineer, working on algorithms to solve image processing problems. On weekends, he’s a Japanese schoolgirl.

      How does a mild-mannered computer engineer turn into a schoolgirl? First, Kobayashi got interested in taking cosplay (costume play) photographs of manga, anime, and video-game fans dressing up as their favorite characters. When exhibiting his photography at a design event in 2010, and hearing that a well-known cross-dresser would be checking out his pics, Kobayashi decided to dress up as a schoolgirl. He was surprised at the positive reactions his outfit garnered at the event. But it wasn’t until the following summer that he wore the outfit out among the general population when a ramen restaurant in Kanagawa offered a free bowl of noodles to anyone over thirty years old who came dressed in a sailor-type uniform.

      “Nobody took up the ramen shop’s offer in the first month,” Kobayashi recalls. “A friend of mine recommended I go. I was the first one to get a free bowl of ramen.” After that, Kobayashi was hooked and began wearing the outfit in Tokyo. Online, people began buzzing about a bearded man in a sailor suit. The gray-haired man in the cute schoolgirl uniform and the braided beard cut a striking figure. Middle-Aged Sailor-Suit Dude was born!

      “The sailor suit is a symbol of cuteness,” says Kobayashi. “I think it makes middle-aged guys feel nostalgic for when they were in school and had a secret crush on a female classmate. Well, that’s what I imagine, because actually, I went to an all-boys school.” Kobayashi wasn’t a fan of the boys’ school uniform, saying it made him feel “tied up.”

      Now that Kobayashi is an internet celebrity with his own website (growhair-jk.com), he’s been able to parlay that into television appearances. He’s even involved with a sugary sweet pop group called “Chaos de Japon,” populated with actual junior high schoolgirls, not just as the group’s photographer and one of its producers—he’s also a fully fledged member. “Now, I have to follow the rule imposed on members: I’m prohibited from falling in love with someone,” Kobayashi says. “If I were found violating the rule, I would have to shave my beard off.”

      PHOTOS TAKEN BY HITOSHI IWAKIRI

      Kobayashi isn’t being serious. Then again, maybe he is. There’s a certain playfulness about his sailor-suit schtick. It’s unusual, sure. But it’s also fun and oddly cute to see a middle-aged man in a schoolgirl uniform riding the Tokyo subway or flipping through a magazine in a bookstore. In a way, it breaks up the monotony of urban life. Here is someone doing what they want, instead of being constrained. For Kobayashi, the schoolgirl uniform is liberating.

      “People are surprised when they see me in person, because they’ve seen me on the internet or on TV,” Kobayashi says. “They rush up to me and ask to shake my hand or take a picture. That makes me feel good, and I feel like I’m doing something good in society too.”

      On the eighth floor of the Don Quixote building in Tokyo’s geek capital of Akihabara, throngs of AKB48 fans stand waiting outside a theater dedicated entirely to the famous all-girl pop group. Above them is a marquee proclaiming “Japan’s most sophisticated show.” The fans are mostly male. But a few girls dressed in uniform-like fashion—way too skimpy to be seen in school hallways—linger at the edges. Inside is a single row of seats reserved for female fans like these, and another row for families. On one wall of the lobby dozens of small brass plaques bare the names of the diehards who have attended over a hundred concerts, and there is little room for more. These fans worship AKB48 the way idols are meant to be worshipped, with an almost religious fervor.

      YOU, BE COOL!/KING

      AKB48’s penthouse theater represents the pinnacle of success. But out in the streets of Akihabara there are plenty of wannabes. Sidewalk idols appear in the area singing gooey pop songs in hope of creating a grassroots fan base among the otaku (geeks or fan-boys) who congregate there. These street idols are considered more “real” than inaccessible pop idols because regular folks can see them up close and personal. They are called aidoru (会いドル), a word play on the Japanese pronunciation of “idol” (aidoru; アイドル) with the Japanese kanji “ai” meaning “to meet.” Interaction with fans is essential to their success: they hold intimate concerts, pose for photographs, sign autographs and even partake in handshaking events where thousands of fans line up to meet members, but only if they first purchase the group’s latest single. AKB48 is a product of an era in which social networking sites seemingly make everyone accessible and everything personal. So far, it’s working: in 2009, AKB48 set a record for first-week sales by female artists with the chart-topping single “River.” In 2013 the group beat their own record, becoming the biggest selling female group in Japan ever.

      Just like the girls struggling at ground level, the girls of AKB48 are approachable but just out of reach, and true fans would not have it any other way. “What if I did actually date an AKB48 girl?” says one waiting fan. “Then all my friends would be jealous and maybe even hate me. And what if dating her was not as I imagined? What if I was disappointed?” What if, what if?

      AKB48 is the brainchild of Yasushi Akimoto, the lyricist and record producer of the original girl idol super group of the eighties, Onyanko Club. With AKB48 he has tapped into the desires of the otaku who hang out in Akihabara, with the “AKB” being short for “Akihabara” and the “48” referring to the number of group members (though the real number hovers close to ninety). The concept behind AKB48 is to offer fans a huge selection of girls to adore, make sure each girl has a different personality for fans to identify with, and make the girls perform live often enough for fans to see them regularly. The group is split up into several teams, each of which take turns performing at the theater seven days a week. When they perform, they’re typically in school-uniform-inspired outfits, while their music videos are often set in schools. AKB48 is

       the schoolgirl super group.

      Sixteen girls in matching school blazers scuttle on stage. Pre-recorded music strikes up as they go into a choreographed dance sequence and start singing. They’re young and cute. They chatter between themselves and banter with the audience, which reacts with its own performance—of chants and synchronized dance

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