Answering the questions you've always wondered about but never asked

A: In a country of adults so devoted to designer labels that thousands of people camped out on the sidewalk for days before a Vuitton store opening in 2002, the eschewing of Prada for a mishmash of colors and textures is a profound expression of teenage rebellion. "Japan's culture values tradition and harmony," says Christy Tidwell, a University of Texas professor who studies Japanese street fashion. "Wearing outfits based on disharmony is an escape." The phenomenon began in the mid-'90s on a stretch of Omotesando, the main drag in Tokyo's Harajuku district, which until 1998 was closed to traffic on Sundays, thus creating a hokoten, or "pedestrian paradise," and a thriving public square. Suburban kids flocked here, shedding their restrictive school uniforms in favor of a constantly evolving cast of trendy styles, each more outlandish than the last. But there's also something less subversive at play. This is, after all, a culture whose obsession with name brands is second only to its fascination with cartoonlike preciousness. Photographer Shoichi Aoki, founder of the magazine Fruits (the name he coined for Harajuku's fashion deviants), has his own simple, equally convincing explanation for the kids' fondness for these getups: "They dress this way because it's cute."