Color in November

I saw someone in Harajuku wearing neon pink, some experimental top, sneakers that didn’t match. Just walking, unbothered, like it was normal. And I guess in Tokyo it is. That baseline of visual confidence—wearing bright color in wet November like it’s fine—that’s what separates Tokyo from everywhere else.

In Germany, autumn kills the whole visual world. Everything’s gray, everyone dresses gray, and standing out feels like you’re making a statement instead of just getting dressed. In Tokyo, same gray sky, and they just decide to paint over it. Harajuku, Shibuya, Shimokitazawa—there’s this understood agreement that you can wear whatever you feel like, and nobody makes it weird.

The clothes usually aren’t expensive. A vintage shirt layered with something experimental you found in a resale shop. The point isn’t the price or the brands. It’s that what you wear is allowed to matter, and that you get to decide what a season feels like instead of letting the season decide for you. A nineteen-year-old in bright colors walks past a tired salaryman in dark blue and they’re both just people. Nobody’s defending anything.

That’s what I wanted from autumn my whole life. Permission to dress in the color you feel instead of in the color that’s acceptable. In Tokyo, you just get that permission without asking.