On a cool early morning like on a humid afternoon, in Shanghai, Phnom Penh, Hanoi or Bangkok, the scene is quietly familiar: a woman steps out of her home in a loose, matching set of clothes that look unmistakably like pajamas. She walks to the corner shop, buys vegetables, chats with a neighbor, maybe drops off a child. To many foreign visitors, the sight of women wearing sleepwear or house clothes in public streets across Asia feels puzzling, even shocking. But in much of the region, pajamas outdoors are neither laziness nor rebellion. They are a deeply practical expression of how homes, streets, gender roles and comfort intersect in everyday Asian life.
In China, the most commonly cited term is 睡衣 (shuiyi), literally “sleep clothes,” though in practice it refers to a category of soft, loose garments designed for being at home and just beyond it. Cotton two-piece sets with floral prints or pastel colors are sold everywhere, from supermarkets to neighborhood markets, precisely because they are meant to be worn while cooking, cleaning, caring for family members, and running short errands. Similar outfits appear in Vietnam, where women wear đồ bộ—matching tops and pants, usually made of thin cotton or rayon, often decorated with playful patterns. In Thailand, the equivalent is ชุดอยู่บ้าน (chut yuu baan), literally “stay-at-home clothes,” while in Cambodia many women refer simply to house clothes, worn interchangeably indoors and in the neighborhood.
The key to understanding this phenomenon lies in how public and private space is understood. In many Asian cities and towns, especially in working-class or older neighborhoods, the street is an extension of the home. Cooking smells drift outside, stools spill onto sidewalks, children play near doorways, and neighbors come and go freely. Stepping out to buy food or greet someone does not mark a transition into a fully public, performative space. Clothing follows this logic. Pajama-like outfits signal proximity, not neglect.
Climate reinforces this choice. Across tropical and subtropical Asia, loose housewear is often the most sensible option. Breathable fabrics help women cope with heat and humidity while doing physically demanding domestic labor. Tight jeans, synthetic dresses, or layered outfits may look “presentable,” but they are impractical for women who move in and out of the house many times a day.
Class and labor also play a central role. This style of dress is most visible among women engaged in unpaid or informal work—caregivers, street vendors, cleaners, or those running micro-businesses from home. Changing clothes for every small outing is simply inefficient. Wearing pajamas outside reflects time scarcity rather than indifference to appearance. For many women, comfort comes before aesthetic performance.
Importantly, these clothes are rarely sexualized locally. A woman in shuiyi or đồ bộ is read as busy, domestic, maternal, or simply at ease. The irony is striking: societies that are often strict about women’s sexuality show remarkable tolerance for women prioritizing comfort over polish. Pajamas do not signal moral laxity; they signal ordinariness.
In recent years, modernization and social media have complicated this norm. Younger, middle-class women in cities such as Shanghai or Seoul increasingly avoid wearing pajamas outside, associating them with lower status or rural habits. In Japan and South Korea, where urban dress codes are generally stricter, house clothes are far less visible beyond immediate residential spaces. In China, debates periodically flare up online about whether pajamas in public are “uncivilized,” revealing anxieties about class, modernity, and global image rather than hygiene or decency.
Yet for older women, and for many in Southeast Asia, wearing house clothes outdoors remains a quiet assertion of autonomy. It is a refusal to constantly curate one’s appearance for the public gaze. It says: this street is part of my life, not a stage.
Seen through this lens, Asian women in pajamas are not violating norms; they are following a different set of them. Their clothing reflects climate, labor, neighborhood intimacy, and a cultural logic where comfort and belonging matter more than looking dressed for strangers. The discomfort, more often than not, belongs to the observer—not the woman walking calmly down the street in her shuiyi or đồ bộ, perfectly at home.
I’m dictating this while standing in front of a pyramid of tomatoes that have seen better days, one hand holding my phone, the other poking at cucumbers to see which one hasn’t already given up on life. I am wearing my house clothes, red of course. Call them pajamas if you want. Soft cotton, loose enough to forgive lunch, patterned enough to hide stains. And yes, I am outside. In public. The horror.
Every few weeks, someone—usually a foreign visitor or an online commentator who has never carried three grocery bags up four flights of stairs—discovers Asian women in pajamas and decides it’s a problem that needs explaining. Are we lazy? Poor? Unaware of mirrors? In need of guidance? Dear children, let Auntie educate you gently, while bargaining over chilies.
First of all, this street is part of my living room. The shopkeeper knows my face, my preferences, and my impatience. I will be here for seven minutes, not seven hours. I am not attending a panel discussion, a date, or a job interview. I am buying tofu and eggs. The idea that I should perform femininity at full volume for this errand is adorable, but deeply unnecessary.
Second, pajamas—house clothes, home sets, whatever name you want to give them—are not lingerie. They are uniforms. The uniform of women who cook, clean, care, work, and multitask until the sun goes down. They breathe. They stretch. They forgive sweat. If comfort offends you, that’s your emotional work to do, not mine.
Third, let’s talk about control. Societies that obsess over what women wear often pretend it’s about decency. It’s not. It’s about discipline. And there is something quietly delicious about older women, working women, exhausted women stepping outside in clothes that say, “I am not available for your gaze.” Pajamas are not sexy, aspirational, or respectable enough—and that’s precisely their power.
I see younger women avoiding this, anxious about being seen, photographed, judged. I get it. Social media has turned the street into a catwalk with permanent surveillance. But watch the aunties. They have opted out. They have tomatoes to buy, knees that hurt, and zero interest in your opinion.
The shopkeeper is asking if I want coriander. I do. I always do. I tuck my phone away, pay, and walk home in my pajamas, perfectly decent, perfectly human. If that unsettles you, maybe ask yourself why comfort on a woman looks like a threat.