In Tokyo — or anywhere in Japan, where the buzz of the train station mingles with the hum of a fridge that you switch off at 1 am because you’re the only one in the apartment — the idea of hiring a granny sounds absurdly charming. Yet that’s precisely the service offered by companies such as Client Partners in Japan, whose “OK Obaachan” (OK! おばあちゃん) scheme invites clients to hire a warm and wise older woman, for about ¥3,300–¥3,300 plus transport (roughly US $23–$30) per hour.
In other words: if you’ve ever thought your kitchen needed a bit more “baachan” energy — someone who can fold fitted sheets without a sigh, cook a flavourful miso soup, listen to your breakup story and nod wisely — you’re in luck.
The service, of course, is more than whimsical branding. It’s a cultural and socio-economic fix for very real issues: an ageing society, a labour-market that leaves older women sidelined, and a younger cohort increasingly untethered from traditional ties. Japan’s society is ageing rapidly (referred to as 高齢化社会 kōreikashakai), and single-person households are skyrocketing. Data show that younger working-age Japanese are feeling loneliness — with about 47 % reporting they “always” or “sometimes” feel lonely, and the highest rates among men and women in their 30s.
The OK Obaachan service places women aged between 60 and 94 in roles ranging from “just cook for me” to “sit with me while I tell my parents I’m gay” or “help me end this toxic relationship”. According to reporting, grandmas have been asked to mediate family disputes, provide handwritten notes, teach cooking, babysit, even simply exist as a soothing presence.
At first glance this might seem to be about domestic help — but dig deeper, and you’ll see the loneliness vacuum it attempts to fill. The OECD points out that severe social isolation in Japan is a growing concern, especially among young men and those who withdraw from employment, education or training (NEETs) or even take the extreme step of becoming ひきこもり (hikikomori) – reclusive individuals shut in for months or years.
When you live in a society where lifetime employment has almost vanished, inter-generational households are rare, and social ties are looser, the idea of someone stepping in to play the nurturing, connective role of a grandma makes sense. The marketing line is whimsical, but the function is serious: older women gain meaningful income and social connection; younger or isolated clients gain human presence, a touch of domestic ritual, a listening ear. Tack on that pensions often fail older women who sacrificed careers for housework, and you have a business model that addresses both the labour-market gap and the social-connection gap.
Culturally speaking, Japan has long placed the grandmother figure—the おばあちゃん (obaachan)—at the heart of domestic warmth, informal wisdom and communal memory. She is the custodian of たれぱんだ (teriyaki?) — sorry, wrong image — the custodian of cooking techniques, neighbour-chat, rice-cooker vigilance. That figure is under pressure as the solo household becomes the norm and work-time extends into late evening. The service thus riffs on deeply ingrained emotive architecture and repackages it in paid-for form. And yet, the absurdity of hiring what would once have been a relative underscores how far the needs and norms have changed.
The phenomenon also offers a stark lens on the “loneliness epidemic” narrative: yes, it’s about people who are older or disabled or living alone—but increasingly it’s about people in their 20s, 30s, 40s who, despite being in full-time work or smart apartments, feel disconnected, unseen or unsupported. As one report notes, many working-age Japanese might not be objectively isolated but still live with persistent emotional loneliness.
So when a 27-year-old Tokyo professional books an amabatta-style “grandma” for an hour to teach them how to fold futons or talk about childhood rumblings while they sip green tea, what they’re really buying is a symbolic remedy for the absence of a small-scale network: a thread of relational normalcy. And when a 70-year-old former housewife in Saitama signs on to the OK Obaachan roster because she wants purpose and income after the death of her dog, what she is really buying is relevance and connection.
There’s an irony here: single loneliness fuels a service built on multigenerational intimacy. The “grandma for hire” sells love that can be scheduled, paid for, and concluded on time. It’s cosy, yes—but poignant. Because when the alternative is eating alone, closing the sliding door in your tiny apartment, thinking “somebody should care”, then having somebody actually show up is a minor revolution. In a way, the service is a bright little flag waving at the dislocation of modern Japan—proof that a person can survive with four walls and a high-rise view, but they don’t thrive until someone else appears. In other words: you’re not just renting a grandma, you’re renting a moment of belonging.