She doesn’t try to be controversial. But she succeeds (ask Frank Sinatra, M.C. Hammer or Andrew Dice clay). She doesn’t try to be beautiful. But the dour Irish rocker can’t help that, either. She has, of course, an arresting presence. She also has soft, searching eves, a buttermilk complexion and lips undulant as an archer’s bow, though she plays them down. The only thing O’Connor is happy with is her hairstyle or anti-hairstyle. “I love it like this.” she has said. “I feel really beautiful.” But there she draws the line. “”I don’t look like the sort of woman a man feels comfortable with.” Now separated from her husband, drummer John Reynolds, O’Connor says she hasn’t had much luck, guy-wise: “Men are just a pain in the ass. I They really are. But, of course, I would like Lancelot to come along and sweep me off to his castle.” Fine, as long as there are no pollutants in the moat, imperialist flags flying from the lower or oppressed minorities chained in the dungeon.