Last week, we all went to a weekend tea event and wore kimono for practice (since the new ichi-a's were about to start wearing it.) One of our new group who is very new to wearing kimono got up 3 hours early to start getting dressed, and even knocked on one of the sempai's (not my) door for help at something like 6am. I was most definitely not awake at 6 am, and we had already arranged to meet at 7 for all who needed help getting dressed. So, when we did meet, this same person was getting help with the obi from Sarah, and I helped the other who didn't know how. But person A was quite worried about the kimono. When Sarah left her to get herself dressed with only a couple last things to tie up and another helper to do it, she kept getting my attention to help her mess with little details here and there. She looked fine, it was well put together, but she just couldn't stop fighting with a little point here or there and then suddenly, with just 10 minutes before we all needed to be walking out the door to catch the train, out of the corner of my eye with my hands full of person B's obi, I saw a movement--- an entire obi untied and falling to the ground, and I looked over to see A pulling everything apart and taking it off. With my hands full I couldn't try to stop her but only wail "Nooooo!!! Don't do that! We have no time!" So it was a huge relief when another of the sempai came to the room a couple minutes later so I could wail "stop her!" but it was too late and she was already stripped back down to her juban-- the underkimono with what I later learned was 2 hours of the other two sempais' work dressing her on the ground in piles and 5 minutes to get it all put back together.
So needless to say that didn't go too well and we were late out the door and barely made it to the station in time to catch the train and I found it impossible not to be frustrated and sort of incredulous at the existence of a person who could think that was the thing to do at that moment (even respecting the fact that she may not fully have understood was the plan was.... I mean, I wrote a PhD on fashion and *I* don't think it's acceptable to be getting dressed for 2+ hours.) So, I didn't yell at anybody and I tried to be as kind as I could under the circumstances. And no one needed to explain that it was a foolish thing to do, as in the mad rush she ended up wrapping the kimono backwards (like only dead people are dressed) and the late departure meant we were all speed walking and rushing for the train-- so it was probably pretty clear to her in the end. This also meant that we needed to do a hardcore kimono fix when we arrived in Nara. We sent the others on ahead, and the three female sempai musketeers ushered A into the train station bathroom and stripped her down and put her back together at the changing table next to a line of ladies waiting to use the facilities who marveled at us, and one offered advice which we politely assented to and then gently ignored. 8 hands to hold things off the floor, 6 of which were also furiously wrapping and folding and tying put our duckling back together again in about 7 minutes. She didn't look as good as she had before she undid the morning's handiwork, but she wasn't dead anymore, so that was a great improvement. And we went off to have a lovely day at Ochamori.
Okay, the reason I tell this story is not to embarrass A, but because her trouble with perfectionism has kindled my thinking on kimono. Because the thing is, kimono is not like other clothes. You retailor it to your body everyday. Okusama (the wife of the current iemoto/grand master) said to us just today, it's a mystery, but the same obi and kimono are never the same. That never happens with western clothes that you put them on and say, oh, today I'm not wearing it right.
We have jokes about the diseases of kimono, which I've taken great pleasure in naming: there's schooner obi-- that's when you have a creaky obi, so that when you move or even breathe, the obi makes a creaking noise, like the timbers of a great ship at sea. It's hilarious and annoying. Then there's sausage leg. That's when the folds of the kimono or underkimono (juban) wrap too far around your legs and get trapped when you kneel, so that instead of expanding a little when you settle onto the ground, they squeeze your legs together like you're a sausage in a casing. Paivi has Sa-chan and Ta-chan, the right and left sides of the hashiori-- the fold in the kimono that shows below the obi. They're named after the Sakura and Tachibana trees that are traditionally planted to the right and left of the entrances of Imperial buildings. There are also slipping obi tails, flipping obi tails, granny collar, open collar, sliding obi, and any number of other "diseases of kimono" that happen everyday.
So the fact that person A was so concerned about little issues here and there that bothered her about the kimono left me sort of nonplussed. I've never had a single day that I think, ooh, nailed it. Kimono is utterly perfect today, every little fold and collar and knot is just right. Once I complained out loud that my obi tail kept wanted to flip up that day, and one of my sempai said, "you need more towels" (this is because some people with more curves that me wear towels to give themselves the more cylindrical shape that the kimono conforms to). I didn't reply but I think to myself, no, I need to stop moving and bending at the hip. That's the only thing that will stop my tail from flipping up.
Because that's why a kimono won't go on just perfectly and stay that way: because inside here I'm a real living human being. I have to move and bend and get things done. I have to use my strength to get around and my body to carry things and clean things and do things. The places where my kimono gets less than perfect are the places where I have used my power to accomplish something. They are proof of my living breathing ability to make change in the world. A doll could be put in a kimono and padded and towelled out to look quite perfect or I could hold perfectly still and probably not have to worry about a fold bubbling out, or a collar slipping, but where my kimono falls short of perfection is where I have accomplished something else using my strength.
At the end of the day, my collar has often settled into a position rather more open than it was in the morning; my sleeves are heavy with trash--tissues and kaishi and things. It annoys me when I see it, but I also see the end of a long day, I see a job accomplished and the strength of my body to do what I ask of it, and to transcend appearances.
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