I told myself it was an experiment in circularity, but the truth is that I wanted to test my taste under pressure. Renting, after all, is accelerated self-knowledge. You commit to a silhouette for a night rather than a decade, you learn fast what flirts in a thumbnail and sulks in daylight, and you send your mistakes back before they sediment into guilt.
The first delivery was a test of character as much as cloth. A sculptural black dress borrowed for a Mayfair dinner arrived in a grey bag that looked like it had been to war and won. Inside, perfection – but a size that fit only if I inhaled like a debutante and never sat down. I messaged the lender, who replied with a smiley face and the calm of a woman who has seen all human nature pass through a zip. We improvised: I wore it with a chain belt higher than intended and stood at the bar with the posture of a ballet teacher. Later, the photos looked chic enough to justify the faff and taught me a valuable thing about my body – I admire architectural dresses on other people; but I want to sit and eat food. A week later, a silk column in navy did the opposite. It slid on, sighed, and said yes to everything. Renting distilled preference into data points.
'"The process of trying without buying exposed my habits in a way my wardrobe never could."'
The market itself has been quietly professionalising while I was at my mirror making decisions. Analysts peg the global online clothing rental market at roughly USD 1.4–1.5 billion in 2025, with forecasts clustering around USD 2.2–2.3 billion by 2030. That’s a steady 8–9 percent compound annual growth, not a fad so much as a service tier finding its level. One report had 2023 growing by a brisk 33 percent, more than 50 percent above 2019 levels, with Europe expected to accelerate fastest as retailers add rental alongside resale and repair. In the UK, the signals are visible on the high street as much as in spreadsheets: Selfridges wants almost half of customer interactions to be circular by 2030 – rental, resale, repair, refills – a startling target from a shop that taught generations of us how to want new.
Platforms are growing up too. By Rotation now speaks fluently in the language of scale – more than a million downloads and around 150,000 listings across the UK and US – which you feel when a search for “navy dress, dinner, sleeves please” yields options that do not look like a bridal party on loan. HURR, the slightly older cousin with a London core, has sailed past £100 million in rental transactions – real money for clothes that continue to clock up useful nights out. Across the pond, Rent the Runway’s subscriber base has rebuilt to the mid-140,000s and is ticking up again, proof that the model works for a segment of women who would rather subscribe to novelty than own the consequences. None of this means rental will replace ownership; it means ownership now shares a wardrobe with access.
My own access came with rules. I rented only pieces I would plausibly buy at full price. I banned panic – no same-day orders – and I learned the choreography of try-ons. I send WhatsApps to friends with better judgement, and always have emergency tape. The process of trying without buying exposed my habits in a way my wardrobe never could. I reach for texture over print when I want to feel authoritative, and colour when I want to feel joy. I think I like maximalist shoulders, then avoid them when there is a lectern involved. I claim to be a dress person, yet every photograph that makes me feel like myself shows a perfectly cut trouser and a jacket with structure. Renting turned those hunches into evidence and gently humiliated the rest.
'"There is a civility to the whole exchange that retail rarely musters – an acknowledgement that our clothes live multiple lives and that we are capable of looking after each other’s things."'
There were comic defeats. A satin suit that promised Studio 54 and delivered airport lounge. A bag everyone photographs like it dispenses charisma that, in reality, holds nothing and sits on the body like an unpaid bill. I returned both and noted the lesson. There were lovely surprises too. A bias-cut skirt I assumed would be unforgiving until it skimmed like good lighting. A no-brand cashmere roll-neck borrowed for a cold gallery opening that made my saving account ache until I found the exact twin on resale a month later. Renting bled into resale in the way all sensible circular habits do – you try, you learn, you buy less and better.
Practicalities matter more than the romance admits. I now pad lead times, collect at the office to avoid parcel ping-pong, and filter ruthlessly for lenders with accurate measurements and a five-star record on cleaning. Deposits are fine; vague return windows are not. The economics only work if a rental displaces a purchase rather than adding to it – a truth the industry admits when it is feeling honest. The logistics are also the unglamorous work that will make or break the category at scale. The best platforms are investing in exactly that – pick-up points, concierge dry-cleaning, packaging that can cope with British weather and human optimism.
Friends often ask whether renting is really sustainable. The answer, boringly, is that it depends. A velvet jumpsuit that would otherwise be worn once and banished absolutely deserves a busy second life. A white cotton dress that needs an exorcism after every party probably does not. What I can say is that rental shifted my spend away from novelty and towards fit and fabric. When you have to write a listing description of a garment you own – to lend it out – you start to notice the honest details that hold value: the back seam that behaves, the lining that does not crackle, the zip that can be trusted to hold after a big dinner at a black-tie event. Rental trains you to think like a custodian rather than a consumer, which is the most sustainable habit of all.
The social side was unexpected and oddly cheering. I have messaged with strangers about hem lengths like we were hatching a heist. I have returned a dress with a thank-you note and received one back that felt like a tiny medal. Once, a lender tucked a safety pin into the pocket of a skirt “just in case the night gets interesting”. It did not, but the gesture made my week. There is a civility to the whole exchange that retail rarely musters – an acknowledgement that our clothes live multiple lives and that we are capable of looking after each other’s things.
Twelve months on, the outcomes are plain. I own fewer, better pieces and I rent with intent. The algorithm still tempts me with thumbnail sirens, but I now recognise my proportions faster than it recognises my desires. The market will keep expanding at its sensible single-digit clip, retailers will fold rental into their circular targets, and the best platforms will keep adding users and smoothing the friction that once made the whole experience feel like borrowing a dress from a cousin with a complicated schedule. What rental offered me, beyond the pleasant virtue of extending a garment’s life, was a clear-eyed audit of taste. Access did not dilute it – it refined it. And when taste is clear, the wardrobe – owned, rented, repaired – becomes small, precise and yours.
