Somewhere between the slapstick of Harajuku fashion and the aching poetry of loneliness that creeps in when the lights go out, Pom Harajuku dances. Not the kind of dance you’d see in a glass ballroom. No. She dances like a neon clown in a world too drunk to laugh. Like a broken doll in Tokyo’s underbelly, stitched together by slapstick courage and the kind of grit you only find in women too stubborn to quit.
She came into the business the way most drunks come into a bar—on a whim, chasing something they couldn’t name. Saw some lunatic wrestling at the Thailand Japan Expo in 2017 and thought, that’s it—that’s where I belong. Most folks run from the ring; Pom ran toward it like it owed her rent.
And so, in 2018, she threw herself into Tokyo Joshi Pro-Wrestling with the desperate, delightful energy of a woman chasing a high that doesn’t end in rehab. First match? A singles loss to Yuka Sakazaki, the Magical Girl with flying fists. Pom got thrashed, of course—but she smiled. Not the smile of someone delusional. The smile of someone who likesgetting up after the fall. And brother, she’s made a goddamn career out of it.
Pom Harajuku stands 5’4″, but that’s just a technicality. In heart, she’s 10 feet tall and bleeding glitter. Her offense is slapstick-meets-street-fight. She throws her body like it’s on loan from fate—kicks that look like they’re powered by caffeine and spite, a body that absorbs punishment like a sponge soaking up whiskey in a bar fight. She doesn’t win a lot. But when she does, you feel it in your bones.
This isn’t your five-star wrestling technician. This is not Bryan Danielson in a kimono. This is chaotic charm wrapped in knee pads and cotton candy-colored dread. Pom is the court jester of TJPW—a fool with truth in her fists.
Over the years, Pom’s built a resume not of gold, but of grit. She’s been the workhorse you forget about until she stabs you in the heart with a random moment of beauty. A spot in a battle royal. A tag team loss with more fire than your average WrestleMania. She might lose most nights, but she shows up. And there’s something damn poetic about that. Bukowski would’ve called her “a lovely loser with blood in her teeth and sunshine in her eyes.”
Look at the tape: 2020—she’s in the International Princess Championship tournament, loses to Hikari Noa. 2022—she and Yuki Aino take a crack at Reiwa AA Cannon for the tag titles, and they lose. Again and again, she’s the underdog in a world that loves its winners. But Pom doesn’t give a damn about the odds. She’s here to make noise.
Let’s talk tournaments—Tokyo Princess Cup has been Pom’s purgatory. She’s been in every damn one since 2020 and never made it past the second round. But each match has felt like a rebellion. A refusal to go gentle into that good loss. In 2022, she even beat Moka Miyamoto before falling to Suzume. That’s a win in Pom terms. And in Pom terms, that’s all you need to keep going.
And Wrestle Princess? That’s her stage. Like a psychedelic tragedy playing out on canvas, year after year. At Wrestle Princess I, she and Mahiro Kiryu got their first win as a team. A fluke or a sign? Doesn’t matter. At WP II, she rolled in with Raku and Ram Kaicho—her chaotic comedy cousins—and walked out with a dub. WP III? Took a loss alongside Aja Kong. WP IV? Lost again, but this time wearing a smile that said, “I’ll be back, and I’ll be weirder.” And then Wrestle Princess V—teamed with Kong again and Max the Impaler, and they won. Proof that if you hang around the bar long enough, the universe might just buy you a drink.
Her style’s unorthodox—hell, her entire life is unorthodox. She came from a swimming background, which means nothing in wrestling unless you count drowning in the deep end of a stacked roster. But Pom? She paddled through it with inflatable floaties and middle fingers. She wasn’t trained to be the best. She was born to be unforgettable.
In 2024, she finally grabbed some hardware—the Setup All Asia Women’s Championship, down in Thailand, of all places. Like a twisted fairy tale that went full circle. That title wasn’t just a belt—it was a brass knuckle to every critic who thought she was just comic relief. And speaking of comedy, Pom’s comedy hits harder than most people’s finishing moves. She plays the fool like a pro, but behind the squeaky shoes and flailing limbs, there’s a mind like a switchblade. She knows what she’s doing. She’s not a clown. She’s a goddamn performance artist in kneepads.
But she’s not all fun and giggles. Watch closely and you’ll see the melancholy underneath. That beautiful, aching sadness that lives in wrestlers who know they’ll never headline the Tokyo Dome, but fight like they will anyway. Pom’s not just fighting her opponent—she’s fighting expectations, fatigue, obscurity. And some nights, she wins that fight.
She’s been a footnote in tag matches, a sacrifice in tournament brackets, the comic relief in someone else’s highlight reel. But through it all, she’s been the soul of TJPW. The misfit who keeps showing up. And maybe that’s the most heroic thing of all.
At the Shinagawa Three Woman Festival in 2024, she teamed with Raku and Yuki Aino for a win—her kind of trinity: strange, sincere, and stubborn. It wasn’t just another indie win. It was a manifesto: we’re still here.
So if you’re looking for five-star classics, keep flipping channels. But if you want to watch a woman fling her weird heart into the void every damn time the bell rings, Pom Harajuku is your girl. She’s not chasing greatness—she’s mocking it with a wink and a headbutt.
And maybe that’s what wrestling needs more of: not gods, but jesters. Not legends, but survivors. Not champions, but poets with bad knees and worse win-loss records.
Pom Harajuku is the kind of wrestler you forget until she makes you remember. And when you do, you’ll wonder how you ever missed her.
Because sometimes, the punchline is the hero.
And Pom’s still swinging.