Part II: HOSIERY FAMINE by Kate Jacobs

Welcome back to our look at the fascinating history of nylon hosiery!

If you're just joining us, please read Part I, in which we cover the advent of "synthetic silk," its benefits and promises, and women's insatiable demand for it. So great was nylon's popularity that a year after its introduction, Du Pont was still trying to catch up with demand. And with WWII approaching, nylon was about to become even more difficult to procure.

It was the early 1940s, and as international tension mounted, the U.S. government froze Japanese silk imports. Hosiery-iIndustry executives estimated that the nation's legwear mills contained enough silk to produce only seven more months' worth of stockings. This meant that increased nylon output was essential if the bare legs of American women were to remain acceptably covered. Du Pont constructed a second plant to produce sufficient amounts of nylon, and those in the hosiery business urged women not to panic. "There is no reason to go stockingless in this country," promised Henry Leader, president of Branch 1, American Federation of Hosiery Workers. "We have enough materials to produce enough hosiery for everybody." Gustave Ketterer, chairwoman of the Consumers Advisory Board of the Chamber of Commerce, predicted that women would find the means to avoid a stockingless fad, for esthetic reasons if nothing else. "There is nothing attractive about bare legs," she said. "And American women are very particular about their looks."

But the situation only worsened. It turned out that nylon was a

wonderful material with which to make parachutes, and saving the lives

of valiant soldiers jumping out of planes took precedent over fashion.

In January of 1942, civilian use of nylon was reduced by 20 percent so

that all resources could be dedicated to chutes. The following month,

DuPont made a harrowing announcement: nylon for commercial use would

be available only on a spot basis. Women even began experiencing

social pressure to give up the nylon hose that they already had when

stockings were named an official war salvage item. Pennsylvania was

especially gung-ho in the hose-collecting effort. In a nationwide

contest to contribute hosiery, the state came in first, donating

280,854 pounds.

This was a fashion crisis. But American women, never ones to back down

from a challenge, got creative. If they couldn't find hose, by golly,

they'd paint them on. Liquid hose became a fad. The Philadelphia

Evening Bulletin reported on the trend. In order to "avoid the

unfortunate results which are daily appearing in the form of blotched,

bespattered legs and frayed dispositions," an article read, "many

shops are offering a new kind of service, the 'demonstration' leg

make-up … With a little instruction the user can learn to paint on

smooth, flattering stockings." Lord & Taylor introduced the "Golden

Calf" room, where Helena Rubenstein herself taught leg art and

foot-relaxation exercises. And women who lived through this traumatic

time still pass down tales of painting faux seams with eyeliner up the

back of their legs.

Makeup was a quick fix, but ladies hungered for the real thing. The

black market was big business during the war, and nylons were known to

sell for upwards of $10 a pair. Federal agents raided warehouses,

seizing thousands of illegally produced pairs. Even as V-E Day

approached, the press warned that the end of war wouldn't mean a quick

return of legal nylon hose. A 135-day wait was expected, and the

National Association of Hosiery Manufacturers planned for a modest and

orderly reentry into the market in order to avoid chaos. The first

post-war stockings came off the looms at Gotham Silk Hosiery Co.'s

mill on September 13, 1945. Two days later a press release was issued

promising that nylons in "fair quantity" would be on store counters by

January of the following year. Finally, women could breathe deeply,

knowing that they had come out the other side of this nightmare with

their legs and dignity intact.