When I first descended that narrow, brightly lit staircase off Takeshita-dōri with my high school girlfriends, beneath the confectionery-round lettering of its glossy magenta sign, I understood at once that I was being granted guided access to a key aspect of Japanese girlhood.

At the bottom of the steps, a vast underground space opened before us, announced by a pastel chequered floor. Upbeat J-pop blasted from invisible speakers, and groups of young people queued outside large boxes plastered with images of beautiful women—their bright eyes looking down at us, beckoning us in. We had arrived at Purikura Land NOA, where my friends would initiate me into their shared rite of passage: the purikura photo booth.

After waiting a few moments, we slipped through the curtains of our chosen booth. We deposited our bags into plastic baskets and crowded onto a slim bench facing a screen topped with an oversized lens, waiting to capture us. My friends expertly navigated the on-screen options, and our session began. Bright flashes burst in rapid succession while a sweet, high-pitched electronic voice walked us through each pose, and I did my best to keep up.

With stars in my eyes, I was led to a separate, somewhat hidden area adjoining the main booth. Seated on a backless stool, we watched the photographs we had just taken beam onto the screen ahead. It was us, but brighter, smoother, and more wide-eyed. We looked almost otherworldly.

Tethered to the base of the screen were several pens. Moving quickly through the interface, my friends showed me how to add stamps, borders, and scribbles to the images as glowing numbers counted down our remaining seconds. In time, I would become adept at rakugaki (落書き): names and phrases in a mix of katakana and hiragana, inside jokes, and premade illustrations marking the date or place of that day’s photoshoot.

When the timer ran out, we waited as the machine spat out multiple copies of our photos, some smaller than a 500-yen coin. After distributing them amongst ourselves, we moved to a nearby station—a table fitted with scissors fastened by metal chains. I watched as my friends cut photos from the strips and peeled off the backs to stick them onto their phones.

The hundreds of portraits I took with my girlfriends became a visual diary of my life in Japan, uploaded to Facebook and Instagram, stuck in my notebook or onto my laptop case. Years later, those stacks of photos of female friends coming of age together are kept sacred in a box I could never throw out.