This wild paper clothing trend of the 1960s was the early version of fast fashion
Before H&M and Forever 21, these wear-it-once garments charmed America
Michael Scott—The Office’s paper company petty tyrant—would have lost his mind. Women were strutting down the street in paper shift dresses they had colored with crayons. Others folded themselves into elaborate paper saris. Some even invested in paper wedding dresses, for $15 a pop. This was 1966, and thanks to one viral marketing campaign, the hottest material in America wasn’t lace or velvet — it was paper napkin. And it proved people were primed for fast fashion.
Scott Paper Company (no relation to Michael) needed to sell napkins and toilet paper. To promote its new Dura-Weve material, made of 93 percent paper napkin stock and 7 percent rayon scrim, it introduced two styles of shift dress made entirely in said paper. For $1.25, a woman received her choice of color: red bandana print or black-and-white pop art.
What was intended as a schtick sold 500,000 units in eight months.
Scott Paper was overwhelmed, to put it mildly. The company didn’t intend to pivot to fashion. It was sticking with napkins and paper plates. But other entrepreneurs and marketers jumped to cash in on the paper craze in a very big way.
By the end of 1966, national sales of paper clothes had topped $3.5 million. In March of 1967, Time magazine published a list of paper clothing offerings. Customers could buy kabuki slippers, bellbottom jumpsuits, evening gowns, aprons, and men’s vests from Sterling Paper Products. The company grossed $6 million in one year, thanks to popular products like its zebra-print pantsuit for $7.50. Department stores like Lord & Taylor contracted in-house designers for specially treated raincoats and bikinis, disposable after three uses. Undergarment company Formfit Rogers released a paper bra, pettiskirt, and kerchief set for $3. Hallmark designed matching party kits, with printed shift dress, cups, plates, placemats, and invitations. One of the most unusual paper dresses was implanted with seeds; upon watering the garment, the fabric sprouted tiny blossoms.
On the West Coast, Joseph Magnin Co. prepared to open 28 pop-up stores stocked with only paper fashion. Kaycel, the paper material used to make $12 fire-resistant men’s suits, calculated that it would make $300 million worth of disposable goods within five years, at this rate of demand. At one point in January of 1967, the demand for paper was so high that it prompted a shortage. “We couldn’t fill spring orders. The stores lived through a period of horror. It’s a miracle anyone survived,” said fashion designer Elisa Daggs. A stunning, comical cottage industry had blossomed overnight.
Paper outfits didn’t look particularly luxe, or even comfortable. The material resembled what hospital gowns are made of today: starchy, boxy, and unnervingly drafty. Thicker versions were packed with cellulose wadding to create softer silhouettes. Fabric had to be coated with flame-retardant solutions, which often washed off with water. On close inspection, few paper outfits fooled anyone. On the other hand, they were sturdy enough to resist tearing. Kaycel bragged that its garments could be washed and ironed up to 20 times. Some designs played with Velcro enclosures instead of zippers or buttons, for quirky ease. “After all, who is going to do laundry in space?” posed textile designer Julian Tomchin. Paper was the future.
The appeal lay in a winning combination of novelty, bargain, and ephemerality. The 1960s represented a blooming, optimistic youth culture with aims to live fiercely and stylishly. It was the era of Andy Warhol’s Campbell’s soup Pop Art (1962), with themes of mass-production, consumerism, and advertising. The Western world was eager to forgo formality and wartime rations. Paper fashion represented the literal casting off of oppressive norms, and the embrace of trends and temporality. One campaign boasted, “Won’t last forever…who cares? Wear it for kicks — then give it the air.” It wasn’t waste; it was liberation.
And if paper fashion seemed a little too accessible, the rich had an answer: “No need to worry that such a democratic dress — one that absolutely anyone can afford — will destroy the fashion elite,” wrote journalist Marilyn Bender. “The woman of wealth and social contacts can commission an artist to create a special paper dress for a special event, then donate it to a museum, provided the garment hasn’t deteriorated on the dance floor.” By then, Hartford, Connecticut, had already hosted a Paper Dress Ball to benefit a museum building fund. Seven hundred guests and designers attended. At another gala in Washington, women traded in Dior gowns to be auctioned, and were given paper dresses in return. Jacqueline Kennedy attended.
Paper fashion was America’s shortcut to style. In December of 1967, the Saturday Evening Post wrote, “Internationally, paper has given us a rare chance to pull ahead of the French. We may have lagged behind for years in haute couture, but our new crew of throwaway designers has been able to start from scratch.” Mademoiselle crowed, “In terms of how much pow you get for your pennies, the paper dress is the ultimate smart-money fashion.” The magazine recommended a white paper mini-dress with silver fringe, which it called a “party stopper.”
Toward the end of the fad, hotel chains even planned to stock paper resort clothes so travelers would never have to pack suitcases again. They would simply buy what they needed at their destination, wear it a few times, then discard it before returning home.
Paper clothes were an early harbinger of the global fast-fashion industry that surrounds us today, from Forever 21 to J.Crew. (See: that $17 sparkly tube dress you bought for a Vegas bachelorette party, wore once, then threw out.) Americans discard 14 million tons of clothes every year, amounting to about 80 pounds per person. Over 80 percent of those end up in landfills or incinerators. Of the clothes donated to non-profits, only 20 percent are considered passable quality. New York City pays $20.6 million annually to ship textiles to landfills. Yet the top fast-fashion retailers grew 9.7 percent over the past five years, compared with 6.8 percent growth by traditional apparel companies. “It used to be four seasons in a year; now it may be up to 11 or 15 or more,” Tasha Lewis, a professor at Cornell University’s Department of Fiber Science and Apparel Design, told NPR.
In the 1970s, environmentalists saw the writing on the wall and put a stop to paper fashion. Two years after Scott Paper debuted its first dresses, a growing sustainability movement rendered disposable fashion passé. The first Earth Day was held in 1970. Durable, homespun, and vintage fashion in earthy tones and natural fibers were the ethical choice. For a time, the mainstream consumer agreed.
Then the following decade endeared us to PVC, acrylic, and Material Girls. Paper was out, but Forever 21 knitwear was nigh.
