I look like that in the morning: my hair's all greasy - it's

“I look like that in the morning: my hair’s all greasy – it’s not, ‘Hey, look at the babe of the band!’ I hate that kind of thing, the way women are always pushed forward as beauties… it’s very easy: you can make the ugliest pig look lovely in a photograph.” Thus spoke Dolores O’Riordan, the haunting voice of The Cranberries, whose words cut through illusion as sharply as her songs cut through silence. Beneath her blunt humor lies a profound truth: the world, and especially the world of music and art, often seeks to value women for their appearance before their gift, their surface before their soul. She rejected this, calling us back to what is real: not the photograph, not the polished illusion, but the person behind it.

The origin of this saying lies in O’Riordan’s own struggles within the music industry. As the frontwoman of a band rising to fame in the 1990s, she was confronted with the pressures placed upon women in public life: to be not only talented, but beautiful; not only expressive, but attractive; not only voices, but ornaments. Yet Dolores was not content to be packaged as an image. Her songs—raw, political, spiritual—rose from her inner being, not her outer form. By speaking of greasy hair in the morning, she cast aside the veil of glamour to remind us that art is truth, and truth does not always wear makeup.

The ancients, too, knew the danger of false appearances. The philosophers of Greece warned against the seductions of sophistry, where words were polished to shine but lacked substance. The Hebrew prophets railed against those who washed the outside of the cup while leaving the inside unclean. Even the Romans knew that beauty fades, but character endures. Dolores, in her modern tongue, echoed this eternal wisdom: the photograph may deceive, but the true worth of a human being lies within.

History offers us countless examples. Consider the life of Frida Kahlo, whose paintings revealed her pain, her passion, and her defiance of beauty’s conventions. Though admired for her striking appearance, Kahlo refused to be reduced to it, instead baring her broken body and fierce soul on canvas. Or think of Rosa Parks, who altered the course of history not through image, but through quiet defiance and strength of spirit. In both women, as in Dolores, we see the same lesson: true power is not in appearance, but in authenticity.

From this we learn that the world is quick to worship illusions, but those who dare to be real are the ones who endure. Dolores O’Riordan was not interested in being the “babe of the band,” for she knew that beauty without depth fades into silence. What she offered instead was the voice of truth, the sound of a soul unafraid of its own humanity. She teaches us that it is better to be remembered for what you created, what you fought for, what you sang into the world, than for the way a photograph once made you appear.

Practical wisdom follows: do not measure yourself by the standards of beauty imposed upon you by the world. When you wake in the morning, do not despise your unpolished self, for it is the real you, the one who thinks, feels, and creates. Strive instead to cultivate your inner gifts—your courage, your voice, your integrity. And if the world would reduce you to appearance, resist, as Dolores resisted. Present your truth, not their illusion. For illusions pass; truth remains.

Thus, remember her words: “It’s very easy: you can make the ugliest pig look lovely in a photograph.” Let them strip away the false promises of appearances. Let them remind you that the photograph is not the person, the glamour is not the gift, the polish is not the power. True greatness is born not in how we look in the eyes of others, but in how we live, how we create, and how we dare to be real in a world addicted to illusions. And those who walk this path, like Dolores, will leave behind not images, but echoes that last through the ages.