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| 'an eye caught' by T.S. on flickr |
There used to be a time when participation in a Japanese fashion subculture wasn’t just a personal choice; it was a proclamation. And a public one, at that. If you were gyaru, you had to take to the streets in platforms and bold makeup, visibly aligning yourself with the scene. If you were a lolita, your meticulous coordinate was not just an expression of personal preference but a clear signifier of belonging.
Most subcultures existed in the real world first, shaped by the people who wore them, the places they congregated, and the shared understanding of their visual and cultural markers.
(Yes, this is another thinkpiece about subculture in the Internet age. Not the first and definitely not the last.)
The Internet really has changed a lot for J-fashion, coopting anything remotely "authentic" and putting it through the SNS meat grinder. It's even altered what it means to get involved. Participation in a fashion subculture no longer requires stepping outside of the house at all. Someone can upload a photo of themselves in their bedrooms, declare themselves gyaru or Jirai or lolita, and wait for validation from strangers. Once defined by real-world engagement, most modern-day fashion subcultures are shaped and defined by online discourse. And so begins the discontent.
It's not just gyaru. Across J-fashion communities, from Jirai kei to lolita, longtime participants and newcomers clash over what it means to truly “be” a part of the subculture. A heated post titled "“Do you guys even like jirai kei/j-fashion?" on the r/JiraiKei subreddit captured the frustration: "This subreddit is full of the blind leading the blind… You don’t have to follow in the footsteps of Japanese jirai to a tee, but god, take some reference it’s JAPANESE fashion,” wrote u/lps933. The issue, it seems, is not just about who gets to participate, but about whether the core identity of these subcultures is being corroded in the process.
Anyone can join in, but not everyone wants to do the work.
Gatekeeping is a dirty word in many online spaces, often associated with elitism and exclusion. But it has taken on a different, more complicated meaning within J-fashion spaces. On the one hand, there are those who argue that a subculture needs some level of boundary-setting to maintain its identity. Otherwise, what's stopping it from getting diluted, polluted, and watered down? On the other, there are those who see any form of gatekeeping as stifling creativity and discouraging newcomers who may not have access to authentic pieces or the knowledge that comes with years of participation.
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| u/stwb3rycak3's full comment |
The lolita community, in particular, has faced its fair share of conflicts over the years, with debates over authenticity, effort, and self-identification playing out across social media. Between the casualization of the style and the influx of TikTok 'guides' that flatten the style into nothing more than a petticoat-less dress, many longtime wearers are exhausted.
One Reddit user, u/stwb3rrycak3, reflected on how validation-seeking has overtaken genuine engagement: “I’ve been in alt fashion spaces for years, and literally since 2020, EVERY community is just a validation circlejerk.” Another, u/Slow-Law-106, lamented the ways in which TikTok and Instagram have commodified subcultures into aesthetics rather than lived experiences, leading to a wave of newcomers more interested in the label than the lifestyle. “People ask, ‘Can I wear lolita if I don’t like petticoats? Can I be jirai if I hate bows?’ You can wear whatever you want, but you can’t expect to be accepted into a subculture if you reject the things that define it.”
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| The 'Lolita fashion iceberg' by none_so_bile |
This shift has led to a new kind of subcultural tourism, where people engage with J-fashion styles superficially, cherry-picking elements for aesthetics without fully embracing the fashion or lifestyle but still claiming themselves gyaru, Jirai, or lolita.
One user from r/Lolita, u/dickfirst4halos, described this phenomenon as a revolving door of newcomers asking the same basic questions, refusing to do research, and expecting to be spoon-fed validation. “What happened to initiative?” another, u/dokja4951, asked, reflecting on the stark difference between past generations who sought out Japanese magazines, blogs, and forums to learn versus today’s influx of people relying entirely on bite-sized, algorithm-fed content.
In many ways, this shift is inevitable if not unavoidable. The rise of social media has made fashion subcultures more accessible than ever, erasing the geographic barriers that once made them feel exclusive. Before the internet, subcultures were shaped organically in physical spaces—Shibuya for gyaru, Harajuku for lolita (or local, community-led events for non-Japanese participants)—where trends evolved through real-life interaction. Now, trends move at the lightning speed of an algorithm, driven by engagement rather than authenticity. A new participant’s first introduction to a style is more likely to come from a snappy, viral TikTok than a meaningful chat with a veteran member, and in turn, their understanding of the subculture is filtered through an online-first lens that may not always align with its origins... or best interests.
This isn’t totally a bad thing. Accessibility has allowed J-fashion communities to thrive globally, connecting people who might never have had the chance to participate otherwise. But it has also led to friction between those who see fashion subcultures as serious commitments and those who engage with them more casually. This isn't just about 'posers;' It's about the way online validation has replaced real-world engagement.
Another user in the r/Lolita community, u/silveretoile, noted that online drama has overshadowed the real-life experience of wearing the fashion: “My comm hasn’t had any IRL drama in years, but online? It’s nonstop.” Another, u/doccrowley, pointed out that the online fixation on gatekeeping distracts from the real issue: “We’re not even arguing about the clothes anymore. It’s just about who gets to call themselves what.”
The problem is that social media rewards conflict. Engagement is king, and algorithms amplify controversy, ensuring that the most inflammatory take on what is and isn’t “real,” gyaru, lolita, or Jirai rises to the top. A well-researched deep dive on the history of gyaru won't get half as much engagement as a callout post about "fake" gals. At the same time, brands and influencers capitalize on the aesthetic while ignoring the roots of the subculture. The result is an increasingly hostile environment where long-time participants feel the need to police their spaces aggressively, while newcomers feel alienated before they even begin.
This hostility has led some to reminisce about the days when newcomers were eager to learn, even if they initially got it wrong. A participant of both the Lolita and Jirai subreddits, u/Slow-Law-106, recounted how, in past years, people would show up in botched “Spirit Halloween coords” but at least had the drive to defend their choices, engage with discussions, and improve. Now, there’s a reluctance to be corrected at all. The expectation is instant acceptance, no matter how far removed someone’s interpretation is from the subculture itself. “People used to argue about whether Bodyline was acceptable; now we’re arguing about whether you even need a petticoat.”
There is no easy solution. Some level of boundary-setting is necessary to keep subcultures from being flattened into lifeless aesthetics, but when that gatekeeping turns into hostility, it risks killing the very thing it’s trying to uplift. The challenge is finding balance, creating communities that educate rather than exclude, and encouraging participation without sacrificing identity. Fashion subcultures have always evolved, and they will continue to do so. The question is whether they can adapt to the internet age without losing the sense of belonging that made them unique in the first place.
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