I used to think reupholstering furniture was something only professionals could pull off, like brain surgery or making soufflés that don’t collapse.
Turns out, it’s one of those skills that looks impossibly difficult until you’re halfway through your first project, staple gun in hand, realizing you’ve been overthinking it for years. The thing about old furniture—especially pieces from the ’60s or ’70s—is that the bones are usually solid. It’s just the fabric that’s given up, faded and torn and sometimes inexplicably sticky. I’ve seen perfectly good chairs hauled to the curb because someone couldn’t imagine them any other way. But here’s the thing: a yard of fabric, some basic tools, and a weekend can transform a sad dining chair into something you’d actually want to photograph for Instagram. Not that you have to post it. But you could.
The process isn’t always elegant. You’ll make mistakes. I definately did on my first attempt, stretching fabric too tight on one side and leaving weird wrinkles on the other. But even imperfect reupholstery beats buying new furniture that’ll fall apart in three years.
Starting With Dining Chairs Because They’re Forgiving Enough to Learn On
Dining chairs are the gateway drug of upholstery projects.
Most have seats that pop right off—just flip the chair over and unscrew four screws. Suddenly you’re holding this sad little cushion, and the whole project feels manageable. The original fabric peels away (sometimes you have to wrestle with ancient staples using a flathead screwdriver and questionable language), revealing foam that might be fine or might crumble like ancient cake. If it crumbles, you’ll need new foam, which craft stores sell in various thicknesses. I learned this the hard way when I tried to reuse foam that had essentially become dust held together by hope. Anyway, once you’ve got your foam situation sorted, you lay your new fabric face-down, center the cushion on it, and start stapling from the center of each side, working outward. The key is pulling the fabric taut but not so tight it warps the cushion or, worse, rips. You’ll develop a feel for it, though the first corner will probably look like a badly wrapped present.
Corners are where everyone panics. There are hospital corners, envelope folds, pleating techniques—honestly, just experiment until it looks decent and doesn’t have massive bulges.
Tackling a Simple Footstool Without Removing Anything Structural
Footstools are brilliant because you can often upholster right over the existing fabric if it’s not too bulky.
I tried this with an ottoman I found at an estate sale, one of those round tufted ones that somehow always smell faintly of someone else’s house. Instead of removing the old covering—which looked like it involved archaeology—I just stretched new fabric over everything and stapled it to the underside of the wooden base. The result wasn’t museum-quality, but it was surprisingly sturdy. Wait—maybe this is cheating? I guess it depends on your definition of reupholstery. The fabric I chose was this heavy cotton canvas stuff that hid the lumpy topography underneath, which felt like a small miracle. If you try this method, buy extra fabric; you’ll need to gather and pleat it as you staple around the circumference, and running short halfway through is a special kind of frustrating.
Trying Piping and Welt Cord Even Though It Seems Unnecessarily Complicated
Piping is that rounded trim you see outlining cushions on fancy furniture.
It’s made by wrapping fabric around a cotton cord and sewing it together, then sandwiching this creation between two pieces of upholstery fabric. I resisted learning this for roughly two years because it seemed like decorator showing-off. But then I reupholstered a small armchair without piping, and it looked weirdly unfinished, like a face without eyebrows. So I bought a piping foot for my sewing machine (twelve dollars) and some welt cord (also cheap) and figured it out through a combination of YouTube videos and swearing. The first attempt was wavy and uneven. The second was better. By the third, I could almost do it without checking the tutorial every thirty seconds. Here’s what nobody tells you: even mediocre piping elevates the whole project. It creates visual definition and hides where your fabric edges meet, which is useful when those edges aren’t perfectly aligned because you measured wrong or the fabric shifted or Mercury was in retrograde.
Also, piping frays less at stress points, which means your work lasts longer.
Dealing With Tufted Backs and Wondering Why You Chose This Path
Tufted furniture is gorgeous and also kind of a nightmare to reupholster yourself.
Those little button indentations aren’t just decorative—they’re structural, holding the fabric and padding in place with long needles or strings that thread through the entire piece. When I decided to re-cover a tufted headboard, I spent an entire Saturday just removing the old buttons and trying to figure out how they’d been attached in the first place. The answer involved upholstery twine, a curved needle that looked like it belonged in a veterinary surgery, and technique that required pushing the needle through dense foam while simultaneously pulling fabric tight and securing buttons without letting anything slip. I watched four different tutorials that all showed slightly different methods, which was not reassuring. The actual process went like this: mark button placements on your new fabric, thread your needle, push it through from the back, attach button, push needle back through, tie off with twine, repeat approximately four hundred times. My first few buttons sat at weird angles. One was definitely too loose. But from three feet away, it looked intentional, and sometimes that’s enough.
Finding Fabric That’s Durable Enough and Also Doesn’t Cost More Than the Furniture
Upholstery fabric is weirdly expensive when you start looking at traditional sources.
Fabric stores want thirty to sixty dollars per yard for the heavy-duty stuff rated for furniture use, measured in something called “double rubs” that indicates how much friction it can withstand before wearing through. For a standard armchair, you might need four to six yards, which gets pricey fast. I’ve had good luck with canvas drop cloths from hardware stores—the heavy cotton ones, not the plasticky kind. They’re durable, usually around fifteen dollars for enough fabric to cover a small chair, and they take dye well if you want custom colors. Painters’ canvas has this lived-in texture that looks intentional rather than cheap. Other people swear by buying vintage curtains or repurposing heavy-weight fabrics from thrift stores, though you have to wash everything thoroughly and check for weak spots or stains you didn’t notice in the store. Outdoor fabric is another option; it’s designed to withstand sun and moisture, so it’ll definitely survive normal indoor use, though the color range tends toward nautical stripes and tropical florals unless you’re willing to pay more.
I once reupholstered a bench with an old wool blanket, which worked better than it should have.
