On June 10, 1968, Women’s Wear Daily banned miniskirts from the office, explaining in a memo: “We all know minis are dead.” Vogue editor-in-chief Diana Vreeland immediately countered: “Vogue has made it quite clear that we believe in any length skirt that is becoming to the wearer. The miniskirt looks delicious in the summer with the right legs and the right girl.” This heavily qualified endorsement failed to convince readers. It was the beginning of a slow but inexorable backlash against the mini, which Women’s Wear dubbed the “hemline war.”

As the decade spiraled into social and political chaos, hemlines careened from thigh-high to floor-length. Designers (and customers) reluctant to commit to one length experimented with asymmetrical hemlines, handkerchief hemlines, and long coats paired with short skirts. Some found fashion’s infinite variety freeing; others were frustrated by the constantly changing rules. But the confusion reflected the turbulent, uncertain times—times not unlike our own.

Amid this hemline hemming and hawing, the midi emerged as a chic and cerebral compromise. Today, the term “midi” is applied to knee-length skirts as often as tea-length skirts, and pencil skirts as well as flowing A-lines. But it originally denoted a specific, unforgiving shape: not mid-leg, but mid-calf, widening from the waist to four inches below the knee. It was (and is) a tricky silhouette to pull off without looking stumpy or frumpy. With the wrong shoes, it was a disaster. While not as obviously youthful as the mini, it looked best on young, tall, slim women with the confidence to cover up. Like so many fashion trends, it won style points for degree of difficulty as well as for execution.

Many in the American media blamed the midi on the French, who had championed the “longuette” look in the Fall 1969 Paris collections. But a more likely source of inspiration could be found closer to home, in Theadora Van Runkle’s costumes for the 1967 film Bonnie and Clyde, set in Depression-era Texas. Faye Dunaway’s instantly iconic berets, clinging sweaters, and calf-length skirts in earthy shades and textures proved an irresistible alternative to micro-minis in synthetic fabrics and day-glo colors. In 1970, Show magazine reflected: “Probably no one imagined at the time that the most far-reaching contribution Bonnie and Clyde would leave to our acid-rock-pop generation was its influence on fashion. Nor that Theadora Van Runkle ... would become responsible for the midis and braless bosoms that are the trademark of the early seventies. But that’s just what happened.”

Warner Brothers

Far from saccharine nostalgia, then, the midi represented gritty glamour for fashion outlaws. According to designer Chester Weinberg, who made the midi his signature, it was “almost as a direct reflection of the women’s moment. It’s for those who don’t particularly care about what men think about the way they dress.” By 1970, the midi had replaced the mini in fashion magazines and boutiques, if not necessarily in the hearts of consumers.