Do you want to bedazzle my grinder?”

Chappell Roan is standing in front of a vintage armoire, holding the silver weed-crushing tool and contemplating what to do today. It’s a hot, gorgeous July Friday, and she has a rare day off in between her increasingly viral festival performances. The crimson curls that usually fall to her lower back are pinned up, her face bare except for a swipe of black liner around her eyes. In lieu of, say, a pink cowgirl suit or a Hannah Montana wig or a latex wrestling uniform,...