In the spring of 1967, I was 12 years old and in the sixth grade. The next year I would be in junior high, in a new building with new teachers.
It was the awkward years. We were on the cusp of being young adults and expected to act more maturely than when we were in grade school. Changes in our bodies became obvious. Changes our parents explained to us, and if they didn’t, an older sibling or friend did.
It was a year of civil rights marches, race riots and anti-war protests. My oldest brother, finding college not to his liking, joined the National Guard lest he be sent to Vietnam. Change came slowly to my small southwestern Idaho town and adults cast a wary eye to California as trends eventually made their way north, much to young people’s delight and grownups’ consternation.
I didn’t pay much attention to news of the day. I did see Twiggy come on the scene, modeling the miniskirt.
The boys and girls in my class had already been given “the talk,” or what passed as sex education in those days. We were separated into different rooms and told what to expect as our bodies started to change. Some of us would develop faster than others, they said. In fact, some had already began to develop. We girls were warned of wearing short skirts. One adult had witnessed a girl in a miniskirt getting a drink of water and “when she bent over you could see everything!”
I don’t remember being aware of how short my skirts were. That was about to change.
One warm spring morning, I chose to wear a pink gingham dress. It was one of my favorites, although I noticed it was a bit snug around my waist.
Later that day, I was surprised to be called out of the classroom by the school nurse. She took me to her office and explained that my skirt was too short, based on new rules approved by the school district. She told me to get down on my knees to measure where the hem of my skirt fell. It was a good 4 inches above my knees.
“Remember,” she said, “when you get down on your knees the hem of your skirt should just brush the floor or go past it.” She brought out a paper sack. “I’m so sorry, Julie, but rules are rules. These are the only dresses I have that should fit you.”
She brought forth the ugliest brown-and-gray-plaid dresses that I had ever seen. I put one on and it fell well below my knees.
Back in the classroom, I took my seat and the boy I sat next to (and the one I liked) teased me. I tried to make light of it, joking and making snide remarks about the dress. At recess, the girls comforted me. They were outraged that I had been forced to change my dress. I was heartened to see that another girl in my class was wearing one of the horrible dresses.
When I got off the school bus and walked into our house, my mother stared, open-mouthed. I explained what happened. She was mortified.
“Oh, honey, I didn’t notice you had outgrown that dress. I’m so sorry. I should have paid more attention.”
(This from a woman who sarcastically decried the miniskirt on another woman by saying, “The hem came up to her neck!”)
The other girl’s mother? She was livid. I learned later that she marched into the school and gave the nurse and teachers holy heck. How dare they tell her daughter what to wear?
Stores followed the fashion trends and hemlines continued to climb. Mothers who sewed their daughters’ dresses were still the judge of skirt length. I remember when we were in high school and safe from parents’ prying eyes, we rolled up the waist bands of our skirts to make them shorter.
Finally, the school relaxed the rules. Girls could now wear pants or short skirts every day of the week, not just on Fridays as in the past. Maybe our skirts weren’t as short as those we saw on TV, but they were short. Even the skirts on women of my mom’s age crept up a little.
Boys’ hairlines came down, too. The discussions about long hair on boys raged on for years. Our argument was, “It’s just hair!”
Compared to other issues of the day, hair and skirts paled in comparison. And that’s about the long and short of it.
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