why we love gyaru: a closer look at foreign participation in the subculture

This post endeavors to explore how and why non-Japanese (gaijin) individuals participate in the gyaru subculture within online spaces. Drawing on 37 survey responses from foreign gyaru participants (primarily aged 16–17) in the Tumblr-based community A Gyaru's Love, it examines the motivations, experiences, and identity formation among individuals who are relatively new to the subculture. Most respondents have been involved in gyaru for less than three years, with nearly half participating for under one year and a similar number identifying with the style for one to three years.

Through qualitative analysis of self-reported survey data, this post identifies the key factors that attract and sustain interest in gyaru among foreign participants, including the appeal of its fashion and makeup, the sense of community it fosters, and its potential as a tool for self-expression and confidence-building in digital environments.

These findings offer insight into how a distinctly Japanese street fashion subculture is reinterpreted and lived by non-Japanese youth online. This post is presented with curiosity and humility; it does not attempt to speak for the entire global gyaru community but instead offers a focused snapshot of one specific digital moment. I hope it serves as an early step toward a deeper understanding of foreign gyaru participation and identity-making within J-fashion subcultures.

Methodology

To gather insights for this study, I conducted an online survey within a Tumblr-based gyaru community called “A Gyaru’s Love.” The questionnaire was created with Google Forms and shared as a post in the community. In total, I collected 37 responses, providing a modest but meaningful sample of foreign participants in the gyaru subculture.

Survey Design

The survey consisted of 21 questions in a mix of formats: multiple-choice items, scale-based ratings, and open-ended prompts. This combination allowed respondents to both quantify their experiences and share personal stories in their own words. 

For example, some questions asked participants to rate aspects of their gyaru involvement on a scale, while others invited longer answers about what gyaru means to them. By including different types of questions, I aimed to capture both the breadth of common trends and the depth of individual perspectives.

Anonymity and Demographics

All responses were kept anonymous to encourage honest and candid feedback. I did not ask for names or any identifying usernames. However, the survey did collect a few basic details to contextualize the answers, such as the respondent’s age range, nationality, and years of experience with the gyaru style. These demographic questions help illustrate the diversity of the respondents without compromising their privacy.

Researcher Positionality

I want to acknowledge that I am not a neutral third party observing this community from the outside. I am a gyaru myself and an active participant in this scene. My personal connection to gyaru shaped the lens through which I approached this project, and it also influenced how I framed the questions, understood the responses, and interpreted the results. This is not a detached analysis but a community-driven one motivated by curiosity, love, and a desire to better understand the subculture I’m part of.

Scope and Limitations

It’s important to note that the data is self-reported and drawn from a single online community. Because the survey link was shared only through A Gyaru’s Love on Tumblr, the pool of participants is naturally limited to that community’s followers and those who happened to see the post. In other words, this study does not represent all foreign gyaru or the total online gyaru experience. Think of it as a snapshot of one digital community at a particular moment in time. The results capture the voices of a specific group of international gyaru fans, and there are many perspectives that are not reflected here.

Value of a Small Sample

While the sample size of 37 respondents is small and the group is niche, the insights are nonetheless valuable. Each response offers a personal window into how gyaru is interpreted and lived outside Japan, providing the qualitative richness that numbers alone can’t convey. The goal of this methodology was not to generalize all gyaru, but to listen closely to a few and learn from their experiences. Even with its limitations, this focused approach provides meaningful clues about why people around the world fall in love with the gyaru subculture and how they make it their own.

Chapter 1: Who Are the Gaijin Gyaru Today?

@1990gyaruo

When I first set out to do this study, I expected the age range to skew young. In my experience with online and public subcultural spaces, there’s usually a small group of veteran participants, but the overwhelming majority are often newcomers and minors (under 18).

Out of the 37 people who responded to the survey, the majority were between the ages of 16 and 17. This stood out to me immediately. Gyaru has often been seen as a youthful subculture, but it was still striking to see such a strong concentration in one specific age group. This suggests that many of today’s foreign gyaru are discovering the style during their high school years, often at a time when identity is still very much in formation.

In terms of experience, almost everyone who answered had been into gyaru for either less than a year (40.5%) or between one and three years (45.9%). Only a few people had been involved longer than that. This lines up with what I’ve seen in online communities: there’s a whole new generation of foreign gyaru who are just getting started, many of whom found the subculture recently through social media platforms like TikTok, Tumblr, or YouTube.

These stats paint a portrait of a young and newly-involved community, one that’s finding its footing and creating its own version of gyaru online. It’s not necessarily about reviving the past or mimicking Japanese gyaru exactly as it was in the 2000s. Instead, this generation is using gyaru as a kind of toolkit: a way to experiment with beauty, identity, and belonging in spaces where they may not have had those outlets before.

I think this matters. The fact that so many people are discovering gyaru now after it's supposedly “died out” in Japan says something about the subculture's staying power. It also speaks to how online spaces have made it possible for gyaru to continue evolving across borders, with entirely new groups of people taking it in directions that reflect their own lives, values, and aesthetics.

This generation of gaijin gyaru is not purely a nostalgic "throwback." It’s something old and new all at once.

Chapter 2: What Draws People to Gyaru?

Before I ran the survey, I had my guesses about what draws people to gyaru. Maybe the makeup, the community, the sense of rebellion baked into the look. What I found, though, was a much more layered mix of motivations, even across such a small group of participants.

When asked what first attracted them to gyaru, most respondents selected a combination of:

• The fashion

• The makeup

• The attitude

• Japanese pop culture (like anime, manga, and J-pop)

Many people checked multiple boxes, showing that the appeal of gyaru is rarely just one thing. 

Even from the short answers, a few themes emerged. For some, gyaru offered a kind of fantasy, something loud, feminine, and unapologetic in ways their own fashion cultures didn’t allow or that didn't interest them. Others mentioned how gyaru felt like an escape from minimalist or “natural” beauty expectations they felt boxed in by.

Here are a few standout quotes from participants:

⁀➴“I love how extreme the expression of femininity is. It’s not about subtlety. It’s like you’re performing a version of yourself that doesn’t ask for permission.”

⋆˙⟡“I found gyaru through anime, but I stayed because I felt like it gave me permission to be loud and extra and creative.”

There’s something important about that idea of permission. For many foreign participants, gyaru doesn’t just look cool. It offers an alternative way of being feminine, confident, rebellious, or playful with one's sense of style. It’s not subtle or passive; it’s loud and alive.

Even for those who don’t feel like they “match” the Japanese standard often associated with gyaru’s iconic look, there’s still something deeply magnetic about the aesthetic. 

While many outside the community falsely assume that gyaru is just about Japanese women “trying to look white,” that couldn’t be further from the truth. Gyaru developed its own bold, rebellious beauty codes, ones that actively resisted the pale-skinned, black-haired, modest femininity dominant in Japanese media. But for foreign participants, especially those in the West, this can create a complicated dynamic. What was once considered rebellious in Japan (tanned skin, bleached hair, heavy makeup) may already be common or even expected in some Western contexts. 

At the same time, gaijin gyaru may feel like they fall outside the “gyaru look” precisely because they don’t share the same facial features or cultural reference points as the original Japanese participants. In that sense, foreign gyaru often walk a line between admiration and adaptation, figuring out how to express themselves through a style that was never designed with them in mind but still resonates deeply.

Chapter 3: Gyaru as Identity & Self-Expression

@paraparamedic

The deeper I went into the responses, the clearer it became: gyaru isn’t just a look for many of us; it’s a way of life. While it might start with makeup and coordinates, it often becomes a tool for transformation. For many of the people who responded to this survey, gyaru has had a real, personal impact on how they see themselves, how confident they feel, how they express femininity, and even how they navigate their own identities.

When asked whether gyaru has changed their self-confidence, the overwhelming majority said yes. Some shared that they feel “much more confident” when dressed gyaru, while others described feeling a little braver, more expressive, or simply more “themselves.”

Here are just a few of the responses:

⁀➴“Gyaru IS my identity, so yes.”

⋆˙⟡“Yes, as it allows me to be more free with how I style my whole look and confidence.”

⁀➴“For me pesonally, as a woman who has always struggled with femininity, it really helps me express a very playful feminine side of myself but in my own terms, not as the more normal/expected male-gazy aspect.”

Another question asked whether participants felt that gyaru influences their identity or self-expression. Again, almost everyone said yes. For some, it was about finding their style; for others, it was about breaking free of expectations, whether cultural, gendered, or aesthetic. In several cases, participants described gyaru as a way to hold multiple versions of themselves at once: cute, powerful, loud, soft, chaotic, and curated.

One participant put it best:

⋆˙⟡“I have multiple styles, so gyaru helped me trust myself and my instincts when it comes to personal style. It’s like I don’t have to choose between versions of me.”

Others reflected on how gyaru helped them access sides of themselves that other subcultures didn’t quite make room for:

⁀➴“Gyaru allows me to follow my own path, both aesthetically and mentally. You have to be confident to wear this fashion.”

⋆˙⟡“Gyaru feels most like me. It’s creative and inclusive, which I love.”

⁀➴“The mindset really changes everything for me. I have social anxiety and being in gal helps me combat that a little bit as I try to keep the mindset.”

⋆˙⟡“I have three styles: Vkei, goth, and gyaru. Gyaru is the only one that gives me that specific type of energy. I love eurobeat, so whenever I’m feeling gal, I listen to my eurobeat playlist. It’s the only style that brings pure brightness and high energy and happiness… I think it’s the only style that puts me into a strictly positive mindset.”

⁀➴“It’s so expressive and there are so many substyles, making it easy for people to enjoy and fit in. Most gyarus I know are super friendly!”  

In the question, "What does gyaru mean to you personally?", answers ranged from poetic to playful. Some described gyaru as a “persona,” others called it “a lifestyle,” and several said it was just “fun.” But even in the lighthearted answers, there was a deeper theme: gyaru allows people to be extreme in a world that constantly tells them to tone it down.

⋆˙⟡“I love how it reclaims a lot of things most people would consider ‘tacky,’ like excessive tan, animal prints, short skirts, and colorful accessories... It feels playful and joyful. I always want to party and dance around (even in my room) when I’m dressing gal!”

Whether it’s about confidence, rebellion, or creativity, gyaru clearly taps into something more meaningful than surface-level style. It’s about feeling bold in a world that doesn’t always want you to be. It’s about taking up space, not just physically but emotionally, aesthetically, and spiritually.

Chapter 4: Foreigners in a Japanese Subculture

@gxblinize

Gyaru is, undeniably, a Japanese subculture. Its origins are tied to specific moments in Japanese fashion history, youth rebellion, and beauty politics. So what does it mean to participate in gyaru as someone who isn’t Japanese? How do foreigners (myself included) navigate the line between loving something and living it in a way that might look different from its source?

I asked participants if they felt that being a foreigner impacted their experience with gyaru. The answers were varied. Some said it didn’t affect their experience at all. Others said it made them feel even more excited to be part of something outside of their home culture. A few mentioned feeling excluded, misunderstood, or doubted, especially when it came to being seen as “real” gyaru by Japanese participants or by others in the online space.

One person noted:

⁀➴“I feel more pressure to prove that I understand the style. Like I’m always being watched to see if I’m ‘doing it right.’”

Another said:

⋆˙⟡“Being a foreigner doesn’t change how I love gyaru, but it definitely affects how I’m perceived.”

When asked whether they had ever interacted with Japanese gyaru, many said no, but those who had shared mixed experiences. Some described positive, supportive interactions. Others felt a cultural distance they didn’t quite know how to bridge. This is where the global nature of gyaru becomes clear: it’s no longer just a Japanese subculture but a transcultural one shaped by different contexts, aesthetics, and social experiences.

There’s a delicate balance between honoring the roots of gyaru and allowing it to evolve. Many foreign gyaru walk this line with care, researching the history, crediting their sources, and actively resisting flattening or disrespecting the culture. At the same time, they are not Japanese, and that difference inherently affects how they engage with the style and how they are perceived.

But what came through most clearly in the responses was this: love for gyaru doesn’t require proximity to Tokyo, perfect fluency in Japanese, or flawless mimicry of the 2000s-era styles. What matters most is sincerity, curiosity, and community. For foreign participants, gyaru often becomes a bridge, not only to Japan but to other people like them, scattered around the world and linked by a shared sense of expression.

One participant noted something that I found particularly insightful:

⁀➴"...I feel as though Japanese gyaru is more ‘modern’ and adapts to current trends, while foreign gals tend to stick to the rules of the original era.”

This speaks to a fascinating divergence in the way gyaru is lived and preserved today. In Japan, gyaru has become increasingly hybridized or even folded into more mainstream aesthetics over time. Styles like onee gyaru or gyaru kei in recent years often blend elements of contemporary fashion (soft colors, modest silhouettes, brand-name luxury) into something that’s more socially adaptable. While the core spirit of gyaru may remain, the look has evolved alongside Japan’s changing beauty culture.

Foreign gyaru, however (especially those newer to the style), often encounter gyaru first as an archived history. Many find it through old Egg magazine scans, 2000s-era purikura, or early 2010s Shibuya street fashion photographs. They fall in love with the aesthetic as it was and try to emulate it as faithfully as possible. For this reason, foreign gyaru communities sometimes function as preservationist spaces, keeping alive styles like ganguro, yamanba, hime, and agejo that have largely faded or evolved in Japan.

This tension is not a bad thing. In fact, it might be part of what makes global gyaru culture so rich. You could think of it as a kind of time capsule effect: the moment gyaru left Japan and entered online spaces, it froze. Not forever, but long enough to become a cultural reference point for international participants.

And because the subculture entered most of their lives through archived content, many foreign gyaru treat those early rules (tan, white shadow, deco nails, platform boots, strict substyles) as canon. In contrast, many Japanese gyaru today treat those same elements as nostalgic or even outdated.

This split also mirrors what cultural theorist Sarah Thornton called the “mainstreaming” of subcultures, where the original scene may evolve or fade, but smaller international groups hold onto its “original” form as a badge of subcultural capital. For foreign gals, mastering the look as it was can be a way of expressing devotion, knowledge, and belonging.

Rather than seeing this as a failure to keep up, I see it as a reflection of different relationships to the style: Japanese gyaru adapt the style from within a culture they helped build, while foreign gyaru often build a relationship with that culture from the outside in. 

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4.1 Fitting the Frame: Visibility and Legitimacy in Foreign Gyaru

One of the most interesting tensions that came up while writing this post wasn’t explicitly named by every participant, but I believe it lingers under the surface of many responses: What does it take to be seen as gyaru, especially as a foreigner?

Japanese gyaru today aren’t necessarily innovating the subculture in a radical way, but many are adapting and softening its elements (especially its 2010s makeup aesthetics) into modern, mainstream fashion contexts. Their looks often feature heavy lashes, shaded "droop" make-up, and oversized circle lenses, but without the bold tan or colorful layering that once defined gyaru in the '90s and early 2000s. These girls are still part of the culture they helped build, but the style they represent has shifted into something more aligned with popular fashions and luxury streetwear than with the rebellious chaos of early gyaru.

By contrast, foreign gyaru didn’t grow up with gyaru as part of their local youth culture; they found it online through scans, videos, and early 2000s blog posts. Their relationship to the style is one of preservation, not reinvention. One group is adapting. The other is studying. And both approaches serve a purpose.

But even the most preservation-minded foreign gyaru (those who try to get every detail “right”) still engage with the style through a different cultural lens, a different body, and a different set of aesthetic assumptions. That difference doesn’t go away, even with ideal eyeliner placement or the perfect sujimori hair. And that’s where it gets tricky.

It seems that within the foreign gyaru community, the most visible or celebrated participants are often those who manage to recreate a particular kind of "Japanese" gyaru look. I put "Japanese" in quotes here because it’s not about racial mimicry or yellowface. It’s more about chasing a kind of post-ethnic aesthetic ideal: huge contact lenses, stark shading, narrow brows, gradient lips, and doll-like proportions. It’s a look that flattens identity into something ambiguous, stylized, and culturally unmoored.

Of course, we don’t exist in a vacuum. This “ethnically ambiguous” look still carries baggage. It isn’t truly neutral. It reflects global beauty trends rooted in East Asian pop culture, filtered through the lens of anime, manga, and Japan's own unique history. Crucially, not all foreign gyaru can (or want to) achieve that look.

Some features can’t be masked by makeup. Some bodies won’t match the ideal proportions. Some people don’t want to go that far and shouldn’t have to. And yet, there’s no denying that foreign gyaru who manage to emulate the classic Japanese gyaru face and body tend to receive more recognition, especially online. This isn’t necessarily out of malice. It might even be subconscious. But it reflects a broader issue: foreign gyaru are often held to a stricter visual standard than their Japanese counterparts.

A Japanese gyaru doesn’t need to "look Japanese." She already is. Her features are read through a cultural context that does the visual work for her. Tan skin and blonde hair register as gyaru on an East Asian face because they contrast with cultural expectations of modest femininity. But on a non-Japanese person (especially someone whose ethnicity already includes tan skin or naturally lighter hair) those same signifiers may not immediately read as gyaru at all. Instead of being seen as bold, they’re mistaken as basic. Instead of being read as rebellious, they’re misread as neutral.

This creates an extra hurdle. In order to "read" as gyaru, foreign participants often have to exaggerate the look even further (adding more lashes, more shading, more deco, more styling) to signal that they are participating in a Japanese subculture and not just doing an alt-glam look.

And yet, even with all that effort, legitimacy is still fragile. The idea of being "gyaru enough" hovers like a quiet judgment, especially when you're not Japanese.

This tension doesn’t negate the love foreign gals have for the subculture. But it does shape the way they move through it, how they are received, and what kinds of bodies and faces become most celebrated within it. It’s not just about how you look; it’s about how readable your look is through a Japanese-coded lens. That’s a complicated place to be. But it’s also a testament to how deeply these gals care: they’re not just wearing a style. They’re translating it across cultures, reimagining what it can mean on new skin.

Chapter 5: The Future of Gyaru

@glittergurrrl2002

One of the last questions I asked in the survey was: Do you think you’ll still be doing gyaru in five years? I expected some hesitation, maybe a few “not sures” or “probably nots,” but I was surprised to see how many people answered with a strong, hopeful yes. Even among those who were relatively new to the subculture, there was a feeling that gyaru wasn’t just a fleeting interest or aesthetic phase. It was something they could see growing with them.

That sense of long-term connection also showed up in the answers to “What do you think the future of gyaru looks like?” Some predicted a slow resurgence. Others saw gyaru becoming more niche and underground. A few believed that foreigners might become the ones to carry it forward, adapting it and keeping it alive in new ways, especially online.

⋆˙⟡“I think it'll still be a popular style among with other fashion styles.”

⁀➴“More active among foreigners. Japan may be done with it, but we’re just getting started.”

⋆˙⟡“I can definitely see more fast fashion brands becoming popular, and maybe gyaru related media of the scene, since we do have some magazines like Soul Sister coming back soon. I hope to see more tsuyome makeup and more kuro gyaru in the future.”

It’s hard to know exactly where gyaru is headed. In Japan, many say it's already over. But outside Japan (and especially in the digital world), there’s this very real, very active energy around it. And that’s what makes this moment so interesting. Gyaru is no longer just a fashion archive to admire in a magazine or on Pinterest. It’s something alive and moving, shaped by the people who continue to engage with it, reinterpret it, and love it in their own ways.

If the answers in this survey are any indication, the future of gyaru may not be one massive revival but a collection of small, deeply personal evolutions. A Tumblr post here. A TikTok tutorial there. A blog entry. A gyarusa meetup. A bedroom mirror selfie in full agejo or hime glam. That’s how gyaru lives now: not as a singular thing, but as a shared language between people who might otherwise never have met.

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5.1 Aesthetic Without Culture?

One quote stuck with me: “Japan may be done with [gyaru], but we’re just getting started.” It’s a bold claim, maybe even a bit of poetic hyperbole, but there’s truth to it.

Of course, gyaru isn’t “over” in Japan. But it has changed. Where once it was a youth-led rebellion (against school rules and the rigid expectations of womanhood), today, it has taken on a different role in the Japanese cultural imagination. In many ways, gyaru has become a costume in Japan: a kind of nostalgic shorthand for a specific time period, specific attitude, and specific style. It shows up in advertisements and variety shows as a symbol of a bygone era. It functions, in some contexts, the way hippies or punk does in the West: iconic, evocative, and immediately recognizable, but no longer necessarily alive as a movement of resistance.

What’s left is often the aesthetic, not the intent.

That transformation isn’t unique to gyaru. A New York Times article published in early 2024 explores how subcultures have become flattened into aesthetics in the age of TikTok, reduced to “moods” or “vibes” that are performed briefly, often in isolation, and discarded just as quickly. The piece explains that many teens today engage with styles not through community or shared ideology, but as a way to cycle through identities algorithmically.

One Reddit user, quoted in a discussion of the article, took the sentiment further:

“Subcultures are now just aesthetics to be consumed online, usually alone, almost like porn.”
— r/decadeology

This is what happens when subcultures go through the Internet Machine. Their visual language survives, but the context, community, and rebellion often do not. Once gyaru made its way into the global trough, it was bound to be broken down into parts. You can collect all the signifiers without ever participating in the culture.

Of course, that’s not to say all modern Japanese gyaru are “performing” or “putting on a costume.” But broadly speaking, the way many Reiwa-era gals engage with the style is different. The cultural friction that once made gyaru so electric (tan skin, blonde hair, extreme nails, and thick lashes on East Asian faces and bodies in a conformist society) no longer sparks the same controversy. What was once rebellion is now remembered, referenced, and recirculated as nostalgia.

Meanwhile, something different is happening in the foreign gyaru community.

When I look at the answers in this survey, I see people relating to gyaru much like they did at its emergence and peak, not as a costume, but as a lifestyle. Or, at the very least, I see a deep desire for that kind of meaningful experience. 

Conclusion

This post began with a simple question: Why are so many foreigners drawn to gyaru? What I found wasn’t a single answer but a chorus of voices, each pointing to something bold, beautiful, or defiant in the subculture that personally called to them.

From 37 participants (mostly young, mostly new to gyaru) a pattern emerged: people are coming to this style for more than just the fashion. They’re finding confidence, community, and a way to express themselves in a world that often asks them to be smaller, quieter, or more conventional. Gyaru, in all its boldness, gives them space to be something else.

This project doesn’t pretend to capture the full picture of foreign gyaru, or even gyaru online. It’s just a snapshot, a moment in time in one small, vibrant corner of the internet. But even in that limited scope, there’s something powerful. There’s meaning in the way people talk about gyaru, not just as a style but as a way to try on new selves, to rebel softly or loudly, and to find others who feel the same.

As someone who is part of this community, this project meant a lot to me. It made me feel more connected to something I already love, and it reminded me that I’m not alone in loving it. Gyaru isn’t dead. It’s not frozen in time. It’s growing, shifting, and finding new life in all the people who keep showing up, styling their hair, sticking on their lashes, and saying, this is who I am. 

So maybe the question isn’t why we love gyaru but how we love it and how we’ll keep doing it for years to come.

Acknowledgments

To everyone who took the time to respond to my survey: thank you so much. Your words, your honesty, and your experiences made this project what it is. I feel incredibly lucky to have had the chance to read and reflect on your stories, and I hope you feel seen in some small way through this post.

And to the wider gyaru community: thank you for existing. For being loud, soft, chaotic, sweet, rebellious, extra, and everything in between. You inspire me every day.

If you’re reading this and you’re even a little interested in gyaru (or if you’re already part of the community), I hope this post inspires you to think more deeply about what gyaru means to you. Talk to your friends in the community. Ask them what drew them in, what keeps them going, and what they hope gyaru becomes in the future. These conversations matter. They help us reflect, connect, and keep the subculture alive, not just in style but in spirit.

Gyaru has always been bold, emotional, and community-driven. Let’s keep that energy alive by showing up for each other, listening to each other, and continuing to grow together, even if it’s just one conversation at a time.

Credits & Attributions ☆彡

– Gyaru dividers by @animatedglittergraphics-n-more on Tumblr

– Gingham hibiscus background by @Rungphailin Sreehom on Vecteezy

– Community photos generously submitted by:

• ✧ Akeem (Tumblr: @1990gyaruo)

• ✧ paraparamedic (Tumblr: @paraparamedic)

• ✧ Mar (Tumblr: @gxblinize / Instagram: @goblinize)

• ✧ glittergurrrl2002 (Tumblr: @glittergurrrl2002)

– Graphs & data visualizations created using Google Forms.

– All written content and analysis by me.

– Sarah Thornton, Club Cultures: Music, Media and Subcultural Capital (1995) — cited in reference to the idea of “subcultural capital” and how knowledge of original gyaru eras can be a source of identity and belonging in foreign communities.

– The New York Times, “Aesthetics, -Cores and the Rise of TikTok Fashion Identity,” February 2024 — cited in discussion of how subcultures are increasingly consumed as aesthetic trends in digital spaces

– Quote from user u/drunkdunc on Reddit’s r/decadeology thread — referenced in connection to the decontextualization of subcultures in the age of social media

– Special thanks to everyone in A Gyaru’s Love for sharing your thoughts and helping bring this project to life (´｡• ᵕ •｡`) ♡