The ambivalence of identity: Uniforms and exclusivity

Which cabin crew uniform do I think is the best? My personal favorite is Singapore Airlines’ elegant Sarong Kebaya, though I confess I rate Japanese airlines (JAL and ANA) highest for service quality. But judging a uniform separate from the service—or the culture—is impossible.

The fundamental purpose of the uniform has remained unchanged since it first appeared in Japanese history some 1,400 years ago: to satisfy the dual, ambivalent senses of exclusivity and belonging. These are two sides of the same coin. The fact that Japan remains flooded with uniforms—from schools to businesses—suggests we simply cannot function without these twin pillars of identity. Today’s discussion is about this complex role of the uniform in Japanese life.

The disease of youth: Rebellion under a sailor Suit

We must acknowledge that for many outside Japan, the Japanese school uniform—the seifuku—is an iconic aesthetic, often romanticized in anime. If you’ve ever watched a show like Sailor Moon, Death Note, or K-On!, you’ve seen the ubiquitous image: the perfect, crisp uniform that seems to represent a high-stakes, dramatic, yet beautifully ordered school life.

But what is the reality behind the aesthetic?

As I’ve often mentioned, Japan is a nation defined by peer pressure, and this trait is arguably forged in the crucible of the school uniform. We are generally required to wear them for six years, from junior high to high school. When I was a teenager, boys wore the black, stiff stand-up collar jacket (like a naval officer), and girls wore the classic sailor suit.

Teenagers are, by definition, in a phase of rebellion. Despite the military-like rules stipulating every detail—from jacket length to the exact type of shoe—did we follow them? Of course not. Youth is a disease from which, I hope, I have recovered.

We engaged in petty, passive-aggressive rebellion: boys would wear flashy shirts and leave the jacket unbuttoned just enough to be seen. Some made their jackets subtly shorter; others made them comically longer. The point was to fly just under the radar. If you showed me photos of myself from that time, I would die of embarrassment.

Here is the paradox: We never refused the uniform itself. We desperately wanted to be different from others, yet we equally desperately wanted to belong to the group wearing the uniform. This ambivalence—the simultaneous urge for individuality and membership—is the major, defining symptom of the disease called youth.

Post-rebellion taming: Our uniform as an exportable aesthetic

After this failed rebellion, most Japanese people are effectively tamed and grow accustomed to the comfort of the uniform. Consequently, many companies, including ours, maintain one (see image below).

Surprisingly enough, visitors from overseas often find our factory uniform “cool.” They see our staff working in it and recognize the aesthetic of order. Perhaps they see in it the ultimate expression of the Japanese psyche: order and aesthetic rigor applied to manual labor.

It is an exportable aesthetic. While the school uniform enforced conformity, the factory uniform communicates professional belonging and shared mastery. If you appreciate the order and rigor communicated by our staff’s attire, you might be interested to know our uniform is actually available for sale. It’s a way to buy into the aesthetic of Japanese discipline—without having to attend six years of compulsory school.

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