Driving through Gahoe-dong, that genteel neighborhood nestled between Gyeongbokgung Palace to the west and Changdeokgung Palace to the east, last weekend, I delighted in seeing a group of girls making their way up the street wearing colorful hanbok, traditional Korean dress.

I gathered from the various designs — one given a modern spin with a skirt that reached only up to the ankle, another with a longer jacket and the other a simplified version of attire worn by court ladies of the Joseon era — that the girls had rented the hanbok for an occasion, possibly a selfie session at one of the palaces. I remembered reading that young women have taken to cosplay — or costume play — wearing hanbok. Indeed, the girls I spotted that day were laughing and giggling as they walked with their skirts held well above their ankles so they would not trip over the hems.

The hanbok they were wearing were garishly colorful, glowing florescent under the bright afternoon sun. The fabrics, even from across the street, I could tell were not of the best quality. My companion complained that the hanbok looked terrible and that the girls were not sporting a demeanor usually associated with wearing hanbok — quiet, demure, measured movements. I replied, “But they are young girls. It is great that they are having so much fun wearing hanbok.” They exuded such joie de vivre that I, too, felt uplifted. So what if they are wearing tacky hanbok from a rental shop? They were having fun wearing hanbok and were proud to show it.

Going off to college in the U.S. in the mid-1980s, my suitcase held an age-appropriate pink and red hanbok in silk. My mother had insisted on getting one made, saying there would be an occasion for it. She was referring to her own experience as a graduate student’s wife in the U.S. when she wore hanbok on special occasions at the university. My hanbok never made its way out from the very bottom drawer my freshman year until it was time to go home for the summer. Yes, I could have worn it on the invocation day when international students paraded holding their respective flags, but none of us three students from Korea in my freshmen class wore hanbok that day. There were women from India wearing flowing sari and Pakistani students in shalwar kameez. Perhaps for them, wearing their national costumes didn’t require a second thought — I continued to spot those dresses on campus every day.

Hanbok designer Lee Young-hee, who showed hanbok on the Paris haute couture runway in the mid-1990s, said during an interview that children should be dressed in hanbok for their birthdays. That way, they will become naturally familiar with hanbok, she reasoned. Lee who recently had to shut down her hanbok museum in New York due to financial difficulties, held a retrospective at the Dongdaemun Design Plaza earlier this month showcasing her exquisite hanbok, which a French reporter misidentified as a kimono when they were first shown in Paris. That episode fired Lee up on a mission to promote hanbok around the world.

When I visited flower arrangement artist Im Hwa-gong for an interview on one of those dog days of summer years ago, I found her looking elegant in off-white mosi (ramie) jeogori and faded blue mosi chima. She went about her work in perfect ease in her hanbok, an argument against those who say hanbok is too cumbersome to wear every day. When I asked if it was not uncomfortable, she said, “Why, hanbok is the most comfortable thing there is. I will recommend you my hanbok-maker. If it is made right, it will sit perfectly on you.” I noticed that she had adopted the jeogori for everyday wear by using a snap button to close the jacket, rather than the usual long ribbons.

Recently, a friend sent me a picture of a mutual friend, a hanbok designer who became a popular household name when she was refused entry at a hotel buffet restaurant because she was wearing hanbok, posing in the middle of Paris in hanbok. “Can you imagine, I walked all over Paris with this lady in hanbok and people stopped to take pictures and ask what she was wearing,” my friend said, her pride palpable in her voice. Every time I meet my hanbok designer friend, she is in hanbok and I feel compelled to explain why I don’t wear it. Once, I blurted out, “I just don’t have the figure for it.” We both knew it was a feeble excuse. “There is no such thing,” she said with a laugh.

About a month after my daughter started college in the U.S. three years ago, I received a photograph of international students in the freshman class from college. I was reassured to see my daughter’s beaming face. Then, quickly scanning the photograph, I realized that many of the students were in their national costumes.

Young women were wearing qipao, kimono, ao dai, sari, shalwar kameez, sarong kebaya and some other traditional costumes that I don’t know the proper name of. I realized, I should have packed a hanbok for my daughter. Even if she never wore it, it would have reminded her of her identity and roots as a Korean each time she opened her bottom drawer.

By Kim Hoo-ran

Kim Hoo-ran is an editorial writer at The Korea Herald. She can be reached at khooran@heraldcorp.com">khooran@heraldcorp.com — Ed.