Trying on a kimono that day was truly a unique experience.
First, there was the furisode, so wide and large that the sleeves almost brushed the ground. The material was fine silk, embroidered with delicate cherry blossom patterns, smooth to the touch. The master dresser who helped me dress was extremely skilled, wrapping layer upon layer, starting with the juban, then the nagajuban, and finally the gorgeous outer robe.
The sash was tied so tightly that it almost took my breath away. I suppose this is why Japanese women are always soft-spoken and act so gently—being bound so tightly, no one could stride or speak loudly. A small pillow-like object was inserted into the waist; the master dresser said it was an "obiage" used to secure the wide obi belt. The obi knot was tied in the back, very intricate, and I was told there are various styles, but mine was just the most common.
This attire has a certain dignity, as if you're not just wearing a garment, but putting on a whole set of behavioral norms.
Looking in the mirror, the person reflected suddenly seemed much more reserved. My back straightened involuntarily, my head lowered slightly, and even my smile became more subtle. The beauty of the kimono probably lies not in how it adorns the body, but in how it restrains the heart, teaching people to quiet down from the outside in.
Wearing this garment felt like draping an entire culture over my body.