Fashion rental is having a moment. With platforms like HURR and By Rotation on the rise, and retailers like Selfridges jumping on board through in-store rental partnerships, the idea of borrowing luxury pieces for a fraction of the cost feels like a smart move. And the numbers back it up; this year, the global fashion rental market is expected to hit nearly $3 billion, with the UK noted as one of the fastest-growing regions.
On paper, it makes sense. Why spend £1,200 on a designer dress you’ll wear once when you could rent it for £40 and still walk away with the pictures and compliments? The environmental pitch is also compelling. Reusing clothes sounds like an antidote to fast fashion and overconsumption, especially when so many garments are produced, worn once, and then forgotten. But beneath the marketing and the hype, the reality is more complicated.
While fashion rental is positioned as a sustainable alternative, it’s worth asking whether the logistics actually support that claim. A truly sustainable system would mean garments with long lifespans, minimal transportation emissions, and cleaning methods that don’t rely on harsh chemicals. In reality, frequent dry cleaning, shipping across regions, and constant stock refreshes often result in an experience that looks green but may only be partially delivering on that promise. Still, if renting a dress means someone avoids panic-buying a new one they’ll never wear again, that’s arguably a step forward. It’s not a perfect solution, but it’s not nothing either.
There’s also the question of accessibility. Fashion rental is often presented as a democratised way to experience luxury, but many of the pieces available lean toward a specific aesthetic: Jacquemus, Loewe, Acne Studios, and similar designer names. Renting one of these looks can cost anywhere from £40 to £70 for a short period, which doesn’t always feel accessible to students, working-class people, or anyone not looking to spend that much for a single wear. And that’s before adding dry-cleaning fees or late return penalties. Plus-size renters also regularly find their options limited, an issue that mirrors larger problems in the fashion industry.
But there’s another layer to this conversation that speaks to something deeper in our culture. The appeal of renting designer fashion isn’t just about sustainability or financial strategy, it’s also about image. In a world that places such a high value on aesthetics, being able to wear something expensive, even temporarily, can feel validating. We live in a time where looking like you have money often matters just as much as having it, and renting provides a clever workaround. It’s the clout without the cost, the look without the lifelong price tag. And while some criticise that behaviour as performative or superficial, it’s also understandable. Who doesn’t want to feel good in what they wear? Just because someone doesn’t earn six figures doesn’t mean they should never get to experience the magic of a well-made, beautifully designed outfit. That kind of access can be empowering.
This tension between aspiration and reality isn’t new. Think of the film Mrs. Harris Goes to Paris, where a working-class woman dreams of owning a Dior gown. She saves for years, not just for the dress, but for what it represents; beauty, dignity, and the right to feel worthy of something exquisite. That kind of slow, meaningful consumption contrasts with the pace we move at now, but it also reminds us that the experience of luxury has always existed on a sliding scale of who gets to have it and who has to wait. Fashion rental blurs those lines. In some ways, it’s progress. In others, it just shifts the conversation around status rather than dismantling it.
Some people argue that resale platforms offer a better solution. Places like Depop or Vinted foster a sense of community, ownership, and personal style. You buy something, care for it, and maybe sell it on later, giving it new life. Rental, on the other hand, can feel more transactional. You wear it, take a photo, return it, and move on. The emotional connection to clothing isn’t always there. But some users are rewriting that narrative, treating their wardrobes as assets, renting pieces out for profit, and turning fashion into a side hustle. It’s creative and resourceful, and for some, it genuinely works. A £400 dress that gets rented out 15 times becomes less of a splurge and more of an investment.
All of this points to a wider truth: fashion rental is not a revolution, but it is a reflection of where we are. It’s a business model, one that’s smart, responsive, and adapting to the way people want to consume fashion. If nothing else, it offers an alternative to the endless churn of buying new things only to discard them. But it also reinforces our collective obsession with looking a certain way and owning a piece of a lifestyle we may not be able to afford long-term. And maybe that’s okay. After all, we don’t yet have a universal definition of what “sustainable” fashion truly means. In the meantime, renting may be one of the better imperfect options we have.
Whether or not fashion rental becomes a permanent part of the industry will depend on how well it evolves. If it can become truly affordable, size-inclusive, locally driven, and more environmentally sound, it could play a meaningful role in changing how we approach clothing. Until then, it might just be another stylish stopgap. But even a temporary solution can make space for a better one to follow and sometimes, that’s enough.