Located across the street from Shibuya station, Shibuya 109 (or Marukyu) is the kitschy cylindrical landmark of Dogenzaka. As I emerge from the metro exit, I see it right away. It’s hard to miss. Its metallic silver panels sparkle in the morning sun. Even on a Wednesday, it’s crowded. I push through clusters of meandering tourists, gawking at the city through the lenses of iPhone cameras. Salarymen hurry across the junction in their navy suits. It’s early, but there’s a cacophony of noise: the bird-like trill of crosswalks, rumbling black taxis, J-pop coming from God knows where, and advertisements for some new Netflix anime blaring from giant monitors.
I duck under the shade of Marukyu's entryway, passing fashionable young women wearing crimson eyeshadow and ink-black twin tails. They’re carrying shopping bags from Rojita and Ma*rs, two Marukyu-housed labels catering to Jirai Kei, a darker version of Girly Kei with subcultural roots in the edgy teens of Kabukicho. Opposite, people rush in and out of smaller alleyways, leading to more shops, cafes, and izakayas. These streets are the district’s arteries, and 109 is the heart.
Such department stores are located everywhere, but Marukyu is more than a shopping destination; it's a cultural icon. In fact, its visionary architect, Minoru Takeyama, aimed to create a “fashion community” that stood out among its contemporaries. It did not take off immediately. That’s not to say it wasn't profitable, but it didn't become the cultural touchstone it is today until the gyaru boom of the 1990s.
This is where my own love story with Marukyu begins.
My introduction to gyaru was through the ultra-cool, ulta-reverent subculture magazine Egg. I recall being drawn in by those depictions of the rough and raw early years of gyaru when Ganguros — with their bleached hair, tan skin, and white circles around their eyes — prowled the streets of Shibuya in packs. I wanted to know them. Be them. They were mostly middle-class teenage girls who teetered on mega-high platforms and wore colorful, often provocative clothing. It didn’t take me long to learn that these clothes were purchased at Marukyu.
I was born in 1996. By the time I became aware of gyaru fashion, the Ganguro peak had long died. I missed the party by a good 25 years. I am reminded of this as I walk inside Marukyu today, in 2024.
It’s beautiful and bright. The first floor carries garments in conservative shades of off-white, oatmeal beige, and charcoal-black. It’s not all neutrals: dusty pinks and faded lavenders stand out among the achromic fray. Past the clothing stores, there are sleek counters of international cosmetic brands, natural-looking colored contacts, and girly bejeweled purses. A quote from Kate Klippensteen’s 2000 book Ganguro Girls comes to mind as I take the escalator up: “An extended walk through [Shibuya 109]… is dazzling, as in the way a circus may be.” This couldn't be further from the truth now, as Marukyu resembles more of a NewJeans music video than a circus. Given K-pop’s stronghold on Japanese fashion over the last decade, I assume it’s intentional.
As I take minced steps—I’m wearing my tallest Ganguro platforms—around the second floor, a strange feeling strikes me that is too complex to be sadness. I feel like I missed out on something significant. It’s painful, but it’s tender. It's nostalgia for a time I never experienced. But I'm old enough to check myself and this false notion of cultural (or subcultural, as it were) excellence. That which seemed golden and mythic was not without its shortcomings. And yet the feeling persists. I’ve been to 109 with Japanese friends who, like me, are nearing the end of their 20s. They lament how different this Marukyu looks from the Marukyu of their teens. It’s all a little surreal.
At the height of ganguro, the fashion emporium was brimming with vibrant and coveted labels like Egoist, Alba Rosa, Kapalua, Cecil McBee, Pinky Girls, Coco Bongo, Sneep Dip, Love Pets, and Jassie. Only Egoist remains, although it is nearly unrecognizable from the Egoist of the 1990s.
From the sheer amount of content I’ve consumed on Marukyu at its peak, it’s easy to imagine what it must’ve looked like in the late ‘90s and early 2000s. It’s the circus of Kilppensteen’s memory. Flashy vinyl shopping bags bear the names of sought-after brands, making just as much of a fashion statement as the garments they contain. The girls have tan faces and white-painted lips surrounded by a stiff tangle of blonde, silver, or orange hair, their eyes powdered in blacks and blues like a bruise—but it’s cool. It’s sexy. White highlights their aegyo sal (the pocket of fat directly under the eye) and brow bones. They purchase wooden platform sandals from Idol (stylized with a red heart for an 'O') for a reasonable 7,600 yen. It’s a hangout spot and a place to spend birthday money all in one. The stores are a museum of plastic bangles, neon-colored capris, lemon yellow bra and panty sets, floppy hats and denim jackets, 60s style baby doll dresses, and knee-length skirts with tropical, silk-printed motifs. In the words of Penny Lane, “It’s all happening,” and it’s happening here.
It’s the present day, and I'm making my way up 109’s eight-floor spiral in silent contemplation. I'm oscillating between two time periods. Then and now. Now: there’s a campaign going on, which is par for the course for the department store. It’s the
Kawaii Omiyage promotion. I grab one of the fliers. The advertising features two bronzed and toned models styled as gyaru, a tribute to Marukyu's past clientele—a clientele they no longer serve.
I've come to Marukyu several times in a short period in preparation for this article. I'm sure the staff are curious—probably not. They are hard to read because they are true pros of retail, unwilling to allow negativity to mar their perfectly done-up features. They smile; they say “irasshaimase” in practiced, drawn-out tones. Each employee embodies the aesthetic values of the store they work for. They look like they belong on a film set. Beautiful walking mannequins.
As I check out at Moussy (a store produced by former Egoist staffer and gyaru model Morimoto Yoko), where I am purchasing a shirt from the campaign, I notice a QR code at the counter that links to a shop clerk’s Instagram profile. In a way, it reminds me of the カリスマ店員 (or charismatic sales clerk) phenomena of the mid-90s, a contributor to the deification of Marukyu as a place — no, THE place — where gyaru went to worship.
Well, it’s comparable, and yet nothing like it. It’s a time that could never happen again.
Kita Shozo, Marukyu's previous PR manager and editor at Tokyo Street News, most likely coined the term "charismatic sales clerk" sometime before 1999. Kita and his team built the image of the charismatic clerk from the ground up, handpicking girls to appear in magazines and on television. These appearances contributed to the charismatic clerks’ prominence in Japanese pop culture. These young women became icons among gyaru.
Teenage girls would buy whatever clothes the clerks wore, so they were instructed to change outfits several times a day. The teens copied their hairstyles, their preferences in jewelry (gold or silver?), and even the placement of their piercings. If the clerks were seen on the streets of Shibuya, high school girls would squeal with delight as if they were meeting a famous idol. Kita and his colleagues ensured that the clerks provided detailed tutorials on how they style their hair and apply their make-up in the magazines they featured in, most notably a 1999 edition of GalsUp! solely centered on Marukyu's charismatic clerks.
Morimoto Yoko (who appeared in countless fashion serials as an Egoist staff member) was hesitant to receive a 1999 award for her role as a charismatic store clerk due to how much Kita orchestrated the concept's success. She didn't feel responsible. I’d beg to differ. In spite of the significant backstage involvement of Marukyu’s suits’, the young women (the staffers and customers alike) drove fashion and cultural trends. They still do.
I’ve reached the summit. Well, sort of. The eighth floor houses a kimono rental and a hair salon, neither of which I need. So, for me, the seventh is the pinnacle. A store called Spinns sells tan, Ganguro-looking Hello Kitty merchandise and even has some vintage Egg mags on display. While Marukyu is no longer a place for Ganguro, their presence is still felt. There's an echo. I can feel it all around me as I take an extended walk through this historic structure.
In Kubo Yuka's exceptional book, The Last Moments of the Ganguro Tribe: A Study of Gyaru Culture, Kubo speaks to a former Yamanba gyaru (a more garish extension of ganguro that emerged around the same time) and asks her why she believes the trend died out. The former Yamanba, Yuko-san, astutely remarks, “Until then, by putting on nice makeup, wearing expensive clothes, going to Shibuya every day… you could make good connections, get featured in the media, and get work. But since the Internet came along, everyone just thought it was enough to dress interestingly, take good photos, and get compliments from their friends online. Everything became superficial.”
It feels almost gauche to blame everything on the Internet, but there is a link. According to Kubo, ganguro disappeared from Shibuya in 2008. The first iPhone debuted in 2007.
The ganguro may be gone, but gyaru remains, largely thanks to the resurgence of interest in Y2K and Heisei-era aesthetics. It’s not uncommon to scroll through Instagram’s gyaru tag and see young people imitating the appearance of old-school gals. It’s virtually impossible to tell who’s wearing it as a costume and who is an “actual” gyaru. I’m not sure if it matters. Around 2022, coinciding with the release of softboiledegg's song, "Gal is Mind," the term「マインドギャル」 (or mind gal) became a popular concept. It denotes the idea that one can be gyaru even if they lack the look, which is a contentious idea and hotly debated within the gaijin (foreigner) gyaru community.
Egg magazine still exists, though it’s decidedly less cool and reverent. The models are “gyaru talent” and take Shein sponsorships. It’s a new age, but the past is ever-present. As I look at the latest crop of gyaru influencers, I recall a quote Morimoto Yoko gave to the online news publication Yomiuri in 2023. When her workday at Egoist was over, she would take off her wig and platform boots, sneak out the back, and go home discretely. “I was a ‘business gyaru,’ I guess,” she said.
Perhaps it was always about business. Shibuya 109 is, first and foremost, a business operated by a subsidiary of the Tokyu Corporation.
Despite its origins in rebellion, gyaru, like most popular subcultures, includes elements of mass production. Kate Klippensteen nailed it when she described gyaru as a "conformist society within the conformist society at large," followed by an even truer statement: “[And yet,] they have made the choice not to follow the pack.”
