Why I'll Never Rent the Runway

Clothing rental services claim to be revolutionary--here's why they're not

This essay originally appeared in the November 2019 issue of FASHION Canada.

Shortly after the prosaically titled Tidying Up With Marie Kondo debuted on Netflix, numerous second-hand stores reported a gross uptick in donations. In Calgary, Mission Thrift Store reported that donations had tripled compared to the previous year. For weeks, it was as if all anyone could talk about was the elfin Japanese tidying guru who charmed audiences with her habit of rubbing her hands enthusiastically while proclaiming “I love mess!” when confronted with erupting closets and labyrinths of Christmas ornaments.

Tidying Up struck a nerve because it was relatable: Most people’s wardrobes could probably use a good culling, and Kondo’s peaceful Shinto approach to housecleaning provides an alternative pathway for rethinking our relationship with stuff. Primarily, why is there so much of it? Do we need it all? And can we be happy without it?

Clothing-rental businesses like Rent the Runway and Canadian equivalents like Rent Frock Repeat, The Fitzroy, FlauntBox and Boro purport to solve the problem of unruly wardrobes that threaten to suffocate us in our sleep. The premise is simple: For a monthly flat fee, consumers can borrow, say, a punchy Cinq à Sept denim jumpsuit or an Adeam puff-sleeved bustier top and return it after a few wears (or purchase it at a steep discount, should they so desire). For the most part, these businesses claim to provide a “revolutionary” service that single- handedly increases the shelf life of clothes and lowers the environmental impact of clothing manufacturing. But the truth is murkier and much less straightforward.

According to The State of Fashion 2019 report from The Business of Fashion and McKinsey & Company, “the average person today buys 60 per cent more items of clothing than they did 15 years ago” but keeps each item approximately half as long. Objectively, the act of renting clothes instead of shopping seems like the best way to combat this profligate approach to ownership. But while rental services might technically ensure that an item of clothing receives more than a single wear, they fail to address the root cause underlying the fashion industry’s environmental problem in the first place: the constant hunger for new stuff.

“A lot of people on Instagram literally wear something new every day; they don’t want to be seen in the same thing twice,” says Elizabeth L. Cline, author of The Conscious Closet. “The rental industry is giving brands a way to cash in on that psychology.” There’s even “digital clothing,” a service where people pay to have items of clothing Photoshopped on them instead of actually purchasing them.

Renting isn’t the solution to curbing rampant con- sumerism; rather, it reinforces the idea that clothing is meant to be kept on a temporary basis and creates a ravenous appetite for novelty. Think of it as a restaurant: People who go to a buffet will likely put a little bit of everything on their plate and feel compelled to overeat, whereas at a portioned restaurant, they are more likely to order only what they need to feel satisfied and content.

Cline adds that according to life-cycle studies, the environmental impact of laundry and cleaning can quickly overtake the impact of manufacturing a garment. “That’s a piece of it you have to be really careful about,” she says. “Are you switching the environmental impact of the factory to the dry-cleaning facility?” Cline suggests that clothing-rental services may be good for impulsive shoppers who tend to purchase clothes to wear one time, but on a larger scale, these services will only reduce the fashion industry’s net environmental impact if they significantly reduce the amount of clothing that is manufactured.

As someone who adores both housing co-ops and public libraries, I should be vibrating with excitement over this new addition to the rental economy. But my distaste is twofold. In addition to the sustainability posturing, I believe that rental services erode the opportunity for people to form personal connections with what they wear. Clothing is deeply intimate and personal; it’s the thin layer of protection we offer up between our naked bodies and the elements, and it has the power
to act as the physical manifestation of a person’s truest self. This may sound dramatic—I acknowledge that not everyone has such a sentimental relationship with their wardrobe—but how can we expect our clothes to say something about who we are if we have to give them back in a week?

Renting clothes runs counter to the conventional wisdom offered up by sustainable-fashion experts that the most important way to build a sustainable closet is to shop mindfully: Buy only what you love, a few things that will last, and buy them from ethical sources. Cline defines a conscious closet as “a wardrobe built with greater intention and awareness of our clothes, where they come from, what they’re made of and why they matter.” Paying for unlimited party frocks and business blouses is a surefire way to avoid having to put one’s own consumer habits under the microscope—to outsource responsibility for the environment rather than examine one’s own shopping habits. An unlimited subscription to Rent the Runway fosters a relationship with clothing not unlike the relationship the ravenous plant in Little Shop of Horrors shrieking “Feed me, Seymour!” has with blood.

In her book, Cline outlines a philosophy called “the art of less,” which amounts to “the thoughtful, intentional consumption of fewer items of clothing.” It’s not monk- like minimalism, where owning 10 pieces of clothing is the only way to moral surety. Instead, it’s about knowing yourself, understanding the value of an item of clothing, curbing the desire to impulse shop and knowing when to buy something and when to leave it in the store. This “anti-clutter, anti-waste and anti-mindless consumption” approach is described as the secret to building a functional wardrobe. And as Cline writes, “I’ve found that a well-built wardrobe is one of life’s greatest pleasures.” There’s no doubt Marie Kondo would agree.