The chance to turn Japanese

KRISTIN JOHANNSEN briefly enters the magical world of the geisha as she is transformed into an apprentice maiko for an afternoon.

"Look, geisha!" Excitement buzzes down the narrow Kyoto street. There, in a doorway, stand two young women in glittering kimonos and eerie, white makeup, blossoms trailing from their sculptured hair. Tourists gather into a jostling line, clicking cameras. Teenagers and toddlers crowd in to pose with them. The geisha smile demurely, but keep oddly silent.

Their secret? They aren't geisha at all, but visitors to one of Kyoto's more unusual attractions. Japan's ancient capital now has more than 40 "geisha studios" where women can be decked out in the elaborate costume of these traditional entertainers, and stroll through the historic streets.

Real geishas are an endangered species in Japan, even in its most conservative city. Though several hundred still grace Kyoto's centuries-old teahouses, the visitor's chances of seeing one are slim. Geisha parties require a personal introduction, and may cost thousands of dollars for each person. If you can't secure tickets for the annual dance recitals in the three geisha districts, you can hope only for a glimpse of one of these dazzling creatures disappearing through a teahouse door.

Perhaps this is why the geisha studios attract more than 70,000 customers each year, including a growing number of foreigners. Though geishas are a rarity, their unearthly beauty still captures the imagination. The popularity of Arthur Golden's bestseller Memoirs of a Geisha is drawing a new clientele of non-Japanese, eager for a taste of the heroine's gorgeously tragic life.

So, what's it like to be a geisha for a day? Along with two Japanese friends, I visited a studio called Kiyomizu, in Kyoto's venerable Higashiyama district, for a "geisha makeover." The studio was the back room of a coffee shop, presided over by three ordinary-looking beauticians and a chubby brown dog in a pink bandanna.

Like most customers, we chose to be dressed as maiko, young apprentice geishas whose chalk-white makeup, brilliant kimonos, and spectacular, floor-length sashes are far more striking than the refined costume of their elders. A maiko spends her teenage years taking lessons in dance, singing, tea ceremony and traditional musical instruments. She wears the ornate costume, the studio owner explained, to compensate for her lesser skill in these arts, until she is fully trained at 21.

Our transformation took 90 minutes, beginning with the makeup. First, my face was coated with a sticky base, and pink, powdery circles were brushed around my eyes. Then came that mysterious, thick, white paint, cold from the refrigerator, applied with a brush that looked better suited to housepainting. A pouting "mouth" was inked in, and the red and black eye makeup went on in intricate, feathery strokes.

Then it was time for a difficult decision - choosing my kimono. A geisha has dozens in her wardrobe, each handmade and costing thousands of dollars. She selects the design with careful attention to the season and the occasion. I chose the gaudiest of the 10 in the studio, a scarlet maple-leaf pattern, with a white brocade obi sash.

As with the makeup, there is far more to the geisha's kimono than meets the eye. Underneath, I donned a long muslin smock; a shirt-like garment with narrow sleeves; a red underskirt; another robe with long trailing sleeves; and a thick, padded collar.

Even Japanese women require help to put on a kimono. An assistant wrapped my kimono as I held it, then laced me up with a half-dozen different sashes pulled as tight as a Victorian corset. Unlike Western clothing, the kimono is not meant to enhance the body's shape, but to reduce it to a smooth, idealised form. I appeared taller and thinner by the minute. "If you feel faint," the woman said helpfully, "just tell me."

A broad, curved board was bound around my ribs, to give the obi its shape, then the obi was tied, with the maiko's distinctive trailing bow.

Next came the wig. The hairpiece of a geisha is styled by a hairdresser into arrangements of staggering complexity. This is hardly practical in the studios, where a ready-made hairstyle is lifted onto customers' heads, complete with pre-installed ornaments. The wig felt as light and flexible as a motorcycle helmet, with plastic wisteria blossoms dangling around my left eyebrow, and glittery combs poking out in odd directions.

The final challenge was the towering okoo clogs, which felt like suitcases strapped onto my feet. We tiptoed along the corridor and practised mincing our way between the coffee-shop tables until we felt ready to take on the world. I picked up my purple parasol, the manager opened the door, and three stars were born.

Strangers started snapping pictures before we'd gone 10m. We tottered up the street, posed in front of an ancient stone wall, then headed for Kiyomizu Temple, a favourite sightseeing spot. Oddly, nobody seemed to notice that one maiko was a foreigner, except for an old man who pointed, open-mouthed. The unlikeliest people smiled: tiny grandmothers, construction workers, teenagers with pierced eyebrows and green hair. There is something magical about the maiko's appearance that enchants everyone.

Well, not quite everyone. The genuine article let it be known that they were (genteelly) dismayed over indecorous conduct such as smoking and rude language, and by the public's inability to spot impostors. (Under pressure, 15 studio owners have formed a trade association, agreeing to keep a tighter rein on their customers.)

Our studio let us wander about in the temple park, accompanied by a minder who tended our wigs, pointed out photo spots and, probably, kept an eagle eye out for misbehaviour. After an hour, it was time to struggle on our clogs down the hill, to vanish into the studio.

Undoing everything involved much unwinding and huge bottles of baby oil. My head floated when that wig was lifted off. Fifteen minutes of vigorous rubbing at the white makeup left me still looking ghostly.

We left the coffee shop as three tourists on a hot, summer afternoon. The magic was all in the pots of paint and the kimonos hanging in that jumbled back room.

The number of geishas continues to decline. The sale of young girls to geisha houses, as recounted in Arthur Golden's tragic novel, ended decades ago. But, as these studios prove, the image of the geisha continues to fascinate men and women alike. Kyoto's geishas may be a vanishing species, but their mystique is alive and well.