About
I've been in your closet.
Not metaphorically. Literally. For fifteen years I've stood at a consignment counter in Manchester, Vermont, and watched more than 30,000 closets walk through the door. Hundreds more I've edited in person, hands on the hangers, in the actual closet.
I've sorted the same brands you own. I've watched the same patterns repeat over and over: the goal-weight jeans, the wedding-guest dress worn once, the blazer from a job nobody works anymore, the piece she's kept for eleven years because someone she loved gave it to her.
Which means I know what a closet that isn't working looks like from the inside. I know exactly where the friction is.
Why it's called Zippy Chicks.
I grew up in Manchester. Back in the '90s, when I was at the local high school, the kids called it Zippy — it was the hub, the spot where all the surrounding towns came to do their shopping, get their groceries, get things done. Where the action was. I don't know who coined it, but it stuck.
When I opened the shop I was genuinely surprised nobody had used the name yet. The place is stocked by local women bringing in their gently-worn clothing.
So: Zippy Chicks.
And why I opened it.
That goes back to the '90s too. The grunge era — you couldn't find deconstructed jeans or beat-up Levi's anywhere new. The only place to find them was used clothing stores, and that's where I got turned on to consignment. I loved that the pieces were unique. I loved the price.
Over the years, as I kept shopping consignment, I started gravitating toward the better shops. The ones that did the work for you — curated the inventory, styled things for inspiration, made the whole experience feel good.
That's the shop I opened. That's what Zippy Chicks is.
This shop stopped just being a shop a long time ago.
Some days you come in for a blazer, and somewhere between the fitting room and the register we're talking about the wedding you're attending. Or the funeral. Or the kid who just left for school and the house that got very quiet.
That happens here every week. Almost from the beginning this place became a watering hole. Some women come to chat, and some come to not think about a single thing for twenty minutes. Both are welcome, and both are the point.
Sustainable Woman came home.
For a while I was writing somewhere else too — about closets, and about living with intention. I called it Sustainable Woman and I kept it in its own separate space, as if it were a different job for a different set of women.
It was never a different job. Sustainable Woman grew out of everything I've spent fifteen years watching and listening to right here. So it lives here now, alongside the racks.
Which means some of what you'll find is what came in this week. And some of it is about editing a closet, or a life, or why a thing can hang there for six years and still be hard to let go of.
Three ways in.
Bring a tote
Consign what you're finished with. Your split starts at 35% and climbs with what the piece resells for. One 18″ × 18″ tote a week, by appointment.
Book a drop →Come and look
Name brands at 50 to 75% off retail, and the floor turns over constantly, so it's never the same shop twice.
See what's new →Let me in the closet
Four hours, one to one, in your own closet. You get a resale plan, and I take the consignment-ready pieces back with me.
The in-home edit →Come in.
I'm usually here. If you've got twenty minutes and something you can't decide about, bring it — that's the whole conversation, and it's been going on for fifteen years.
Monday–Saturday 10–5 · Sunday 11–4 · 802-367-1064