‘Why I Dress Up for Love’ Netflix Series Review - A Stylish Rom-Com that Balances Charm with Cliché

There’s a particular kind of chaos that comes with mixing high heels, tofu, and a lease that accidentally disappears from under you. Kurumi Mashiba, the central hurricane of this chaos, is a PR powerhouse who dresses like every outing is a runway show and lives her life through a well-filtered Instagram lens. She works at a trendy interior design company, markets table lamps like they’re life-changing revelations, and forgets to renew her apartment lease, which—plot twist—ends with her couch-surfing in a shared house with three strangers. Nothing says new beginnings like sharing a bathroom with someone who thinks soap is optional.

This setup is classic rom-com fare. But the fun lies in the details. Kurumi lands in a shared house with Shun, a quiet chef who seems to exist entirely in linen shirts and opinions about minimalist living; Haruto, a counselor whose WiFi is more active than he is; and Ayaka, an artist who's either painting, delivering things on a scooter or completely checked out. From the first episode, it’s clear the real drama isn’t just whether Kurumi can survive living with three strangers, but whether she can let go of her curated version of life and lean into something more real.

The series makes its name very clear from the start: image matters to Kurumi. But as her meticulously styled life unravels, the show cleverly peels back her layers—not just of makeup and perfectly coordinated outfits—but of expectations, insecurities, and fears. What begins as a fish-out-of-water tale becomes a gentle (if predictable) journey of self-discovery and learning to fall in love without trying so hard.

Now, let’s talk romance. Kurumi and Shun’s slow-burn chemistry is like watching two people silently decide whether to share the last dumpling. It’s awkward, subtle, and sometimes infuriatingly slow—but that’s also what makes it feel more grounded. There’s no grand romantic monologue under the rain. No swooping orchestral music. Just two very different people slowly figuring each other out over bento boxes and passive-aggressive dishwashing schedules. It’s charming. Sometimes frustrating. But mostly charming.

Visually, the series is clean and comforting. Tokyo never looked more inviting—every street corner is bathed in soft light, and every apartment shot looks like it was sponsored by a Scandinavian furniture brand. The contrast between Kurumi’s bold fashion sense and Shun’s neutral-toned universe works well, not just aesthetically but symbolically. This is a world where design and image are central, but the characters are constantly trying to figure out what lies beneath them.

But it’s not all sunshine and Instagram filters. While the show delivers on charm, it occasionally gets tangled in its own hashtags. Supporting characters like Haruto and Ayaka drift in and out of relevance. Haruto, who could’ve added layers of emotional nuance with his counseling sessions, ends up giving advice that sounds like fortune cookie leftovers. Ayaka, meant to be the free-spirited artist, often feels more like a quirky afterthought.

The pacing, too, has commitment issues. Just when a subplot starts gaining momentum, it fizzles out or gets wrapped up with a little bow and an earnest speech. Emotional conflicts are sometimes smoothed over too easily, and the stakes, while real in a “will they or won’t they” kind of way, don’t always feel urgent. It’s as if the show is afraid to mess up its own aesthetic with anything too messy.

Still, this is not a series trying to be profound or edgy. And that’s okay. It’s meant to be a cozy watch—a cup of warm tea after a long day kind of show. It celebrates the little things: the weirdness of roommates, the vulnerability in taking off emotional armor, and the awkward joy of liking someone when you're not sure if they like you back. It also quietly critiques the obsession with appearances, even as it fully indulges in them. Kurumi may start off dressing up for love, but she ends up learning how to show up as herself—which, ironically, might be the most fashionable thing she does.

In the end, Why I Dress Up For Love is the television equivalent of a carefully assembled charcuterie board. It looks good, tastes familiar, occasionally surprises you with a weird pickle, but mostly sticks to what it knows best—light romance, a bit of comedy, and a side of emotional comfort. It isn’t perfect, and it doesn’t try to be. But if you’re looking for something warm, easy to digest, and just quirky enough to make you smile, this one might just be worth dressing up (or down) for.

Final Score- [6/10]
Reviewed by - Anjali Sharma
Follow @AnjaliS54769166 on Twitter
Publisher at Midgard Times