A $1.15 Scarf Stall Now Ranks Among Seoul's Biggest Draws

A stall selling scarves at six for 10,000 won — about $1.15 apiece — has become one of Seoul's biggest attractions, drawing crowds so large that private security and police now control the alleys of Namdaemun market. The seller's technique is inverted salesmanship: he talks customers out of buying. "Don't spend your money," he quips. "It doesn't suit you."

By mid-morning, the main alley is ringed by guards and officers, and a queue penned behind a cordon shuffles forward clutching numbered tickets. Most of those waiting are middle-aged women who have stood in line for more than an hour. Passersby stop to ask whether a celebrity is inside.

Who is 'Scarfrio'?

The salesman does not publicise his real name, so nicknames fill the gap. He is known as "scarf ajeossi" — scarf uncle — and, more pointedly, as "Scarfrio", a mashup of scarf and Leonardo DiCaprio, a nod to his looks and easy charm. "He's so handsome," says one woman in the queue. He is rugged rather than polished, dressed in a market trader's layers against the autumn cold, and poses for selfies with his fanbase.

He has since opened Instagram and YouTube accounts, and clips of him rack up millions of views. That is the whole marketing budget: no chain, no brand, no advertising — just an affectionately blunt pitch filmed by livestreamers.

Lee Mi-hwa travelled from Yongin, about 35km south of Seoul, after seeing him on YouTube. "He's really famous. He's the hottest thing right now," she says. She is describing a man whose product line is a pile of scarves. The packaging, one buyer notes, says made in China.

What does the crowd actually buy?

On Wednesday, Lee Ji-hyun joined the queue at 10am and reached the front at 11.20am — 80 minutes for six scarves. "I finally got some," she says. "The way he talks is so lovely. A man like that deserves to do well, so I came to cheer him on, and I ended up buying."

She recites his routine from memory: "Nothing worth seeing here," he tells shoppers, and "come on, mum, dig underneath, dig underneath", urging them to rummage through the pile. "He feels like my son, like a younger brother," she says. She also praises the product: "This fabric is marvellous. Have you felt how soft it is? How is this 1,600 won?"

She had not set foot in Namdaemun for 30 years despite living in Seoul, and now plans to return once a month. That is the bullish case for the phenomenon: an old-market revival driven by one man's charisma.

Who pays for the fame?

The crowds have forced the scarf seller to shut up shop several times, with police called in to clear the packed alley. In early November, he hired private security, and he has stopped announcing his opening hours.

Moon, a shoe seller a few metres away who has traded at Namdaemun for more than 30 years, says the surge is costing him. "Business is bad. The passage next to me gets blocked and it's really hard on me," he says. "The wider area is fine, because the people come. It's the shops nearby that take the damage." Young people film the seller and come just to see his face, he says: "This is pulling a lot of people in. But there's no spending."

Bae Jong-min, who sells scarves next to Scarfrio's stall, sees the upside — with a caveat. "There are a lot of people coming to the market, so for the market as a whole it's a good thing," he says, pointing to nearby restaurants, coffee shops and food stalls. "But I do worry about crowding issues."

Days earlier, Scarfrio wrote on social media that the attention had left him carrying "enormous pressure and anxiety", and he apologised to the traders around him.

The unresolved question is durability. Attention is converting to footfall and some sales today, but Moon's complaint — crowds without spending — and the seller's own anxiety suggest the economics rest on novelty. If Lee Ji-hyun's once-a-month habit spreads, Namdaemun gains; if the cameras move on, the neighbours will have absorbed the disruption for a trend.