Rolled Hem Foot Tutorial: A Comedy of Errors

In this tutorial, I’m going to regale you with the tale of my epic battle against the rolled hem foot. Buckle up, because this is going to be a wild ride through the land of tiny hems and temperamental feet.

Now, what’s this rolled hem foot, you ask? Well, a little metal contraption that looks like it was designed by a medieval torture expert with a fashion degree. The salespeople and many sewing gurus will tell you it’s your best friend in the sewing room, that makes perfect, even hems every time.

Ha! If only it were that simple. These people probably haven’t tried to wrangle a piece of slippery chiffon through this “miraculous” device. Or maybe they have superpowers we mere mortal sewists lack.

So, I’m here to spill the beans on what it’s really like to use this little foot – it’s not all sunshine and perfectly rolled hems. Get ready for a tale of frustration, laughter, and maybe a few tears (mostly mine). By the end of this, you might find yourself hugging your regular presser foot and whispering sweet nothings to your iron.

Act 1. The Collection

This is my impressive collection of rolled hem feet (also known as hemming feet). These little metal marvels come in all shapes and sizes, from itty-bitty 3 mm hemmers to the wide 1 inch behemoths. They’re shiny, they’re numerous, and they’re about as useful to me as a screen door on a submarine.

Don’t they look pretty? “Look at us,” they seem to say, “we’re shiny, sophisticated and precise!” Sure you are. Sure you are.

I’ve got narrow ones, wide ones. Each one promises perfection, each one swears it’ll make my sewing life easier. Spoiler alert: they’re all filthy liars.

So there they sit, in all their unused glory, a testament to my optimism and the power of marketing. They may not help me hem, but they sure do a great job of collecting dust. 

Act 2. The Chiffon Chronicles

Let’s start with chiffon, shall we? Why would we want to make a rolled hem on something like quilting cotton or flannel? No, no, the rolled hem is meant for chiffon.  

Now, according to the many sewing tutorials on rolled hem foot, step one is to “simply” make a double fold at the start and sew a few regular stitches. Ha!  As if folding chiffon is as easy as folding a piece of paper.

So, I’m hunched over my ironing board, trying to create a 3mm double fold in this whisper-thin fabric. It’s like trying to fold a soap bubble. I press it with my iron, and I swear I can hear the chiffon giggling. “Nice try,” it seems to say, “but I prefer to live my life unfolded.”

The moment I move my hand, the fold disappears.

So there I am, staring at my stubbornly unfolded chiffon, wondering if I’ve somehow offended the sewing gods. The question remains – how on earth am I supposed to start this rolled hem? At this point, I’m considering using a glue stick and a prayer.

Well, this is just the beginning of our chiffon adventure. Who needs comedy when you have chiffon and a rolled hem foot, right?

Ah, but wait! Perhaps this pink chiffon itself is the problem. Surely, a different chiffon will behave better. 

Enter our new contestant: lilac chiffon. This time, it’ll be different. This time, I’ll conquer the elusive 3mm double fold!

I take a deep breath, summon all my sewing mojo, and attempt the fold.

And… it’s exactly the same story.

The lilac chiffon also refuses to hold a fold. 

At this point, I’m wondering if I should have taken up a less frustrating hobby. Underwater basket weaving, perhaps? Surely, those would be easier than trying to start a rolled hem on chiffon.

But no, I persist. Because that’s what we sewists do. We persevere in the face of uncooperative fabric, we battle on against the forces of unfolding chiffon.

Act 3. Cotton – The False Friend

After the chiffon fiasco, I turn to cotton with hope in my heart. Sure enough, cotton behaves better than its slippery cousins. I can fold it once, run my finger along the edge, and then fold it again. I even use a pin to hold it in place.

But then comes the moment of truth – lowering the needle and the presser foot. Now I have to remove the pin without disturbing my perfectly crafted fold. 

I hold my breath, squint my eyes, and attempt to slide out the pin. The fabric shifts. I freeze. Is this what defusing a bomb feels like?

Now, let’s talk about the elephant in the sewing room. The rolled hem foot is supposedly designed for “woven lightweight to medium weight fabrics that are not fraying.” Sounds great in theory, but what fabrics actually fit this description? The only one that comes to mind is quilting cotton. But here’s the question: do we actually need a rolled hem on quilting cotton?

I mean, when was the last time you looked at a quilt and thought, “You know what would make this better? A tiny rolled hem!” 

So here I am, wrestling with cotton, a fabric that doesn’t really need a rolled hem, trying to master a technique that’s supposedly for fabrics that don’t really exist. It’s like I’m stuck in some sort of sewing twilight zone where nothing quite makes sense.

Act 4.  The Throat Plate Trap

Alright, let’s return to our chiffon nemesis. After all, we can’t let a little fabric defeat us, can we? Determined to make this work, I decide to soldier on with the rolled hem on chiffon. Fold or no fold, we have to start somewhere, right?

So, I  place the chiffon under the presser foot and prepare to lower the needle.

Just as I’m about to start stitching, the fabric makes a daring escape attempt. Quick as a flash, it dives straight into the throat plate of my machine. 

Now, the chiffon is jammed in there tighter than a bargain hunter at a Black Friday sale. I can almost hear it giggling from inside the machine.

“Use tissue paper underneath,” the experts say. Oh sure, because what this delicate operation needs is more layers to manage. At this point, why don’t I just add juggling and fire-breathing to make it a real circus act?

“Pull the thread tails,” another suggestion. Ha! I’m a modern sewist with a fancy machine that cuts my threads short with a scissors button. 

✅ Related tutorial: 19 Advanced Features of Modern Sewing Machines

So here I am, staring at my sewing machine, which has now apparently developed an appetite for chiffon. I’m considering my options:

1. Attempt to extract the fabric and risk destroying it (and possibly my machine).
2. Leave it there and tell everyone my sewing machine is on a diet.
3. Give up sewing altogether and take up something less stressful… 

But fear not, dear readers! Your fearless fabric warrior won’t be defeated by a mere throat plate trap. Stay tuned for the next thrilling installment. 

Act 5.  The Tunnel of Doom

So, by some miracle (or sheer stubbornness), I’ve managed to make a few regular stitches on what I hope is a 3mm double fold. I say “hope” because at this point, what’s happening under that foot is as mysterious as the contents of a magician’s hat. It’s all still under the foot.

Now comes the part that sewing tutorials breezily describe as “simply insert the fabric into the foot’s spiral tunnel.” Ha! “Simply?”

With chiffon, it’s actually not too bad. The fabric is thin and it goes into place. 

But cotton? Inserting cotton into that tunnel is like trying to parallel park a trailer… in San Francisco. I grip the cotton with tweezers, attempting to guide it into the tunnel. The fabric resists, bunching up like a toddler refusing to put on a sweater. I try to smooth it out, but it’s acting like it has a personal vendetta against me and this foot.

“Come on,” I mutter, trying to coax the cotton into place. But the cotton isn’t listening. It’s staging a full-on rebellion against the very idea of entering this tunnel. Do I really need to do this?

Minutes tick by. Then more minutes. This is supposed to be the “easy” part. The part that saves time. I’m starting to think that whoever invented this foot had a very twisted sense of humor.

The saga continues! “Will our heroine actually manage to sew with this contraption, or will she turn her rolled hem foot collection into avant-garde wind chimes?” 

Act 6. The Needle Dance

Success! After what feels like an eternity of coaxing, pleading, and possibly some mild threats, the fabric is finally nestled in the spiral of the rolled hem foot. I’m feeling pretty smug at this point. 

Oh, how naive I was.

I lower the presser foot with all the confidence of someone who thinks they’ve just conquered Everest, only to realize they’re still at base camp. I press the start button, ready to watch my perfect rolled hem materialize before my eyes.

But wait. What’s this? The needle is cheerfully stitching away, but it’s not catching the folded edge. 

Time for the needle position shuffle! I adjust the needle to the right. Now it seems it’s too far and out of the hem. I nudge it back to the left. Oops, too far again. 

Left a bit, right a bit… I’m starting to wonder if my needle is staging a protest against rolled hems. 

But give up? Never! I’ll master this needle dance. 

Act 7.  The Great Unfolding

Finally sewing! The rolled hem looks great… for about three inches.

Then, without warning, my double fold stages a revolt. It’s now a single fold, apparently deciding that two folds were just too mainstream. Well, of course this is entirely my fault. I just need to keep the fabric folded exactly 6mm, as if I’m equipped with built-in calipers for eyes. Heaven forbid I accidentally feed it at 5mm – apparently, that single millimeter is the difference between sewing success and chaos.

So, here I am, with three decades of sewing experience under my belt, and I’m being outwitted by a strip of fabric barely wider than a pencil.

I find myself longing for the days when “hem” meant a simple fold and straight stitch. Now I’m engaged in a battle of wits with a piece of fabric, and I have a sneaking suspicion the fabric is winning.

But let me present to you the fruits of my labor. Behold, these are the masterpieces that have emerged from this ordeal. I use the term “masterpiece” very, very loosely here. In fact, if you squint your eyes, tilt your head, and perhaps indulge in a strong beverage, you might just convince yourself it’s a hem.

This looks less like a professionally rolled hem and more like the aftermath of a fight between the fabric and my sewing machine, with the machine emerging as the clear loser. 

You know what? I think at this point, the hem would have looked better if I’d used a stapler instead of the rolled hem foot. At least with a stapler, I’d have consistent spacing and a certain deconstructed charm. Plus, I’d have saved myself hours of frustration. Perhaps I should frame it and call it “Ode to Sewing Frustration” .

Act 8. The Mid-Fabric Mayhem

Let’s talk again about starting a hem. Those neat little tutorials showing you how to begin at a tidy edge? Forget about them. In the real world of dress and skirt hemming, we rarely have that luxury.

No, my friends, in the trenches of actual garment construction, we’re usually diving right into the deep end. We’re not gracefully beginning at an edge; we’re plunging into the middle of the fabric. 

You’ve got your dress or skirt spread out, and you need to start hemming… somewhere. 

So there I am, staring at this fabric, trying to decide where to begin this circular journey. It’s not just about picking a spot; it’s about creating that elusive 3mm double fold in the middle of nowhere. 

And oh, it gets better. Not only do I need to create this minuscule fold, but I also have to lower the needle and the presser foot at the same time.

I start by attempting to pinch the fabric into a tiny fold. My fingers suddenly feel like overstuffed sausages. Who knew that 3mm could feel so small? 

Next comes the lowering of the needle. One wrong move and I’ll either miss the fold entirely or stab my finger. Neither option is particularly appealing.

Finally, I have to lower the presser foot without disturbing my precarious fold.  

And let’s not forget, once you start, you’re committed. There’s no turning back. You’re embarking on a round-the-garment trip.  One stitch at a time, praying that you’ll end up where you started without any unfortunate detours.

Act 9.  The Seam Struggle

Oh, did you think we were done with the hemming hurdles?

Real dresses and skirts, you see, aren’t just smooth circles of fabric. Oh no, that would be far too simple. They come with at least two side seams, sometimes more if the designer was feeling particularly sadistic that day. These seams are like speed bumps on our hemming highway, except instead of just slowing us down, they threaten to derail our entire operation.

As I approach the first seam with my rolled hem foot it suddenly becomes hesitant. It’s like watching a cat approach water – there’s suspicion, there’s reluctance, and there’s a very real possibility that things are about to get messy.

The foot hits the seam, and suddenly the fabric bunches up. The needle starts to stitch in one place like it’s had one too many espressos.

And me? I’m hunched over my machine, making noises that are decidedly un-seamstress-like. There might even be some hissing – and no, it’s not coming from the machine.

I try to guide the seam through gently. No luck. I attempt to power through with brute force. The result is a very wonky hem.

Act 10. The Grand Finale

Alright, we’ve reached the final act of our hemming circus. And like any good finale, it comes with its own spectacular challenge: how on earth do we finish this thing?

I’m staring at the last few inches of my hem, where the beginning and end are supposed to meet in a beautiful, seamless union. Ha! At this point, it looks more like two ends of a rope that have been chewed by an enthusiastic dog.

The sewing guides, in their infinite wisdom, suggest finishing by hand. Because apparently, after all this machine-based drama, what I really need is to hunker down with a needle and thread for some quality time. To decompress, probably.

At this point, I’m considering just gluing the fabric together and calling it a day.

The thought of whipping out the glue is alarmingly tempting. I mean, who’s really going to notice? 

But no, I resist the siren call of the glue gun. I am a seamstress, not a kindergartener making a collage. With a deep sigh that comes straight from my sewing soul, I’ll pick up my needle to finish by hand.

As I make those final stitches, I reflect on this hemming odyssey. Was it worth it? Ask me after I’ve had a strong drink and a nap. Will I do it again? Probably, because apparently, I never learn.

And there you have it, folks. The hem is complete, for better or for worse.

Epilogue

Just when you thought the hemming saga was over,  I decided to throw caution to the wind and try the wide hemming foot. Because apparently, I hadn’t learned my lesson and still harbored some masochistic tendencies.

If using the narrow rolled hem foot was like trying to parallel park a car in downtown Manhattan during rush hour, using the wide hemming foot is like attempting to dock a cruise ship in a pool. The “tunnel” now feels like a highway tunnel… that’s been blocked by a landslide.

I approach the fabric with this new behemoth attached to my machine. The foot looks at the fabric like a lion eyeing a particularly unappetizing piece of lettuce. I take a deep breath, slide the fabric in, and… 

After what feels like an eternity of coaxing, pleading, and possibly some mild threats, I manage to get the fabric into position. I start to sew, and for a brief, glorious moment, I think I’ve cracked it. Then reality sets in. The hem looks less like a professional finish and more like a fabric origami gone wrong.

Note: Some of the links on this page are affiliate links. This means I will receive a commission if you order a product through one of my links. I only recommend products I believe in and use myself. 

In conclusion, dear readers, I have amassed a wonderful collection of hemming feet that I never use. They sit in my sewing box, full of promise but short on delivery. They’re like that ab roller wheel you bought in a fit of New Year’s resolution enthusiasm – impressive to look at, but ultimately gathering dust in the corner.

✅ Related tutorial: Sewing Machine Presser Foot Guide: Types to Elevate Your Projects

But fear not! All is not lost in the world of hems. I get far better results and far less stress using a couple of different rolled hem techniques. Because life is too short to wrestle with these temperamental feet.

For those of you brave souls who want to master narrow hems without losing your sanity, I’ve got just the thing. Check out my video guide –  Narrow hem tutorial: how to make a narrow hem using a Ban Roll tape. Try this technique; you may be surprised. Pleasantly.

And here’s a little secret: rolled hems are an excellent excuse for buying a serger. Even an inexpensive one like the Brother 1034D or Janome MOD-8933 can make rolled hems quick and easy. Plus, they allow you to use decorative thread to add that special something. For the lowdown on serger rolled hems, visit my tutorial How to Make a Rolled Hem with a Serger:  Get Professional Results.

Janome MOD-8933 Serger with Lay-In Threading

I think sewing is supposed to be fun. And if you’re not laughing, you’re probably crying. So why not try a method that’ll keep you in stitches (pun absolutely intended) rather than in tears? 

If I were running a sewing business, churning out rolled hems by the meter every day, I’d probably force myself to master these finicky feet. After all, time is money, and in theory, these feet are supposed to save both. But as a hobby home sewist? Not a chance.

I sew for the joy of creation, for the satisfaction of wearing something I made myself, and occasionally for the thrill of completing a project without stabbing myself with pins too many times. What I don’t sew for is the sheer frustration of wrestling with a temperamental hemming foot that seems designed to test the limits of my patience.

So, I’ll leave the rolled hem feet to the professionals. I’ll stick to my trusty Ban Roll tape and my serger. Because in the world of hobby sewing, the journey should be just as enjoyable as the destination – and that journey doesn’t need to include a detour through Frustration Station. 

Did you like this guide? Well, don’t let it slip away like that sock that mysteriously vanishes in the dryer. Grab that pin below and stick it on your sewing board on Pinterest. And while you’re in a pinning mood, why not follow me on Pinterest? It’s like subscribing to a never-ending show of sewing tips, tutorials, and enough inspiration to make your sewing machine purr with excitement. Your feed will be so full of creative ideas, you’ll be itching to start your next project before you’ve even finished reading.

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