Nomaville: Kir Royale and Aftershave

My stylist, or at least the design school dropout who calls himself my stylist, has tried vainly in recent months to get me to affect the mien of a 1970’s rock promoter. “That’s your look,” he assures. “Mildly dissipated with an artful sense of showmanship but vaguely villainous.” Most days it’s a near miss, but…