Wardrobe
Concierge

Wardrobe consultant. Slow fashion advocate. Lifelong student of the relationship between a woman and her clothes.

It started with Molly Ringwald. Specifically, it started with the way she dressed in John Hughes films — the vintage finds, the layered textures, the pieces that looked like they'd been chosen with personality rather than purchased from a rack. As a teenager watching those movies, something clicked: clothing could be a form of self-expression so specific it was almost a language. And the most interesting vocabulary came from the past.

She has been shopping vintage ever since. What began as teenage instinct became, over decades, a genuine education — in fabric, in construction, in the difference between a garment built to last and one built to be discarded.

Her academic background deepened the instinct into conviction. Her disciplines were international studies, social justice, and global gender studies — and the more she learned about the garment industry, the less she could unknow. The exploited labor. The environmental devastation. The particular way the fashion industry has extracted value from women's hands for centuries while keeping those same women economically powerless.

Fast fashion is not a neutral convenience. It is a system with costs that are simply borne by people and places with less power to refuse them. That knowledge changed how she shops. It changed how she dresses. Eventually, it changed what she does for work.

For years, she worked as a massage therapist and yoga studio owner. That work gave her something she didn't fully recognize as a credential until later: an intimate, professional understanding of the human body.

She knows how bodies move, how they hold tension, how they change. She knows that no two bodies are the same and that most clothing is designed as if they are. This is, perhaps, the most practical thing she brings to a wardrobe consultation — not just an eye for style, but a genuine, embodied understanding of how clothing lives on a real human body rather than a hanger or a runway.

Then there was Paris. She lived in the 11th arrondissement — on a street called Rue Trousseau — for three months. She wasn't studying fashion. She was simply living, walking, observing. And what she observed, constantly, was the Parisienne relationship with clothing: considered, unhurried, personal. Women who owned fewer pieces and wore them with more intention. Who mixed vintage and contemporary without hierarchy. Who understood that style is not about newness — it is about knowing yourself.

She came home changed. Not in a way she could fully articulate yet — but changed.

Home is not Paris. This is obvious, and also beside the point. American life has its own particular relationship with clothing — functional, unpretentious, on the move. She loves that about where she lives. She needs her wardrobe to work in actual weather and actual terrain.

What Rue Trousseau is, at its core, is the translation she has spent years working out: how to bring Parisian intention and slow fashion ethics into a real life in the American West. How to build a wardrobe that is beautiful and practical, curated and lived-in, elevated and genuinely yours.

That translation — Parisian intention meets American life — is not a marketing phrase. It's her actual life.

She comes to your home. She goes through your wardrobe with you — with the eye she has developed over decades of loving clothes, studying their history, understanding their making, and learning what works on a real body in a real life.

She doesn't believe in ruthless purges or minimalist dogma. She believes in intention. In keeping what you love and understanding why. In letting go of what no longer serves you — and making sure it goes somewhere worthy rather than a landfill.