Inside the Bedrooms of Tokyo’s Gyaru Girls

Photographer Alex Waespi’s ongoing series depicts the world of gyaru – a maximalist, fantastical fashion subculture and ideology

In the aftermath of heartbreak, London-based photographer Alex Waespi was drawn to Tokyo as a place that dignifies solitude. “It’s a place that allows you to be alone easily; it almost encourages it,” she says. “I like being alone and getting lost.” It’s also a city that harbours a particularly fascinating network of trends and subcultures. It was through a visit to Nail Sucre in Shinjuku – one of the city’s many extraordinary nail art shops – that Waespi encountered the arresting style and ideology of gyaru, with its “dramatic nails, exaggerated makeup, dyed hair, layered accessories, anime and game influences”. Captivated, she began an ongoing photo project, gyaru*, which would deepen her relationship with Tokyo.

Since it emerged in the 1990s, the trend has evolved into many different substyles and adjacent subcultures. “The origin was a rejection of traditional conservative expectations placed on young Japanese women, but [the term] has very broad meanings now,” Waespi says. At its heart, it’s an attitude that’s usually, but not always, embodied by an aesthetic. She elaborates, “Some fully embrace the fashion and beauty elements, while others might just relate to the mindset – ‘gyaru mind’. At its core, it is positivity, kindness, self-love and doing what you want.”

As Waespi began taking portraits of gyaru girls, she soon encountered the subtle variations in the scene. Some of the girls she met defined themselves not as gyaru, but as a doll, or Lolita, or otaku. Some told her, “Don’t define me, I am my own genre.” As she was introduced to more people and was drawn deeper into the subculture’s intricate nuances, her sense of isolation began to shift. “Tokyo feels like such a huge city, and these subcultures can bring a real sense of belonging in a place that can also feel lonely,” she says, recalling the network of potential friendships that began opening up to her as she met more and more women in the scene. “Everyone knows each other in the fashion circles. A lot of the girls were introduced to me through friends. Gyaru became an entry point into many different subcultures.” 

Tokyo began to feel a little smaller, especially as the focus of Waespi’s project shifted from the city’s exterior life to the private, interior worlds of the girls’ bedrooms – an extension of their identities, adorned with artefacts and treasured objects that augment their unique style. “I wanted the girls to show themselves as they wanted to be seen, styling and arranging themselves in their rooms,” she says. 

The portraits are a fascinating insight into the rituals, transformations and fantasies of Waespi’s subjects. Each girl’s room is a space entirely devoted to the ongoing construction of their ever-evolving gyaru identity – a series of individual maximalist museums with anime ephemera, furry hats, make-up, plushies, posters and trinkets all on display. Girls pose in their chosen outfits with elaborate nail art, kawaii accessories, hair slides and flip phones. Some seem absorbed in their favourite magazines, others look straight at the camera, displaying their hands adorned with Hello Kitty jewellery and two-inch-long nails. Surrounded by their beloved objects, they are in their elements. Each gyaru girl has the otherworldly aura of a character of their own creation. But, as Waespi observes, gyaru is not about transforming themselves into something different or other; it’s about “becoming a stronger or freer version of themselves”.