The experts are flummoxed by the vast meltdown in the Arctic, which has broken records the way Britney Spears once sold them, said an expert I can't find.

Not a coincidence: Spears has just lost custody of her children. She now dwells in the ninth circle of the hell created by the ferocious interaction between fashion and celebrity. We can no longer think of fashion as something to do with clothing. We no longer think of celebrities as having to do with performing. There can be no more questioning this. Call this meltdown of public image, "image warming." But while global warming had to be turned into an expensive feature film to have dramatic impact, Britney has done it herself: Image by image, she has melted down her image to the point of no return.

See? I am not saying "I fear that." I have decided to exercise my sense of worst case scenario. To get used to it.

I see the reporters, snarky or otherwise, as the weatherpeople. The stylists as the scientists who may have an answer. The superstar as the world.

In terms of fashion, Britney effectively used it to self-destruct. I use self in a general sense, since really, no celebrity is in charge of herself, just — and in Britney's case this added to the tragedy — of who decides what she wears. Like the late '90s sight of all those SUVs on the road, many blatant visuals immediately come to mind. Just consider those awful weaves and wigs she chose to sport, and not just after the head-shaving incident. Consider that bikini mess at the MTV awards. Of course her fashion choices were signs of things being off upstairs (and in her heart), but in this present tense of extreme and instant visual dissection, signs = truth = pronouncement.

Now the true undressing begins. The snarkiest articles on Britney's meltdown point to her foolish insistence on wearing clothes that caricature her body, exposing everything despite her being overweight (a mortal sin; look carefully at the outfits worn by the glorious Queen Latifah). See TMZ, the unabashed flayer of celebrity skin, for the bloodiest versions; see CNN; see everywhere. No one left the weight issue out.

Specifically for women, there are acceptable and unacceptable ways of turning into a public train wreck. Weight gain is one of the worst. You can have a small meltdown. You can even have a few. You can have post-baby weight. But you'd better stop looking like a hot mess quick.

And involving the kids just isn't acceptable. So our virgin, who played a perfectly styled schoogirl tease (1998), kissed the original version onstage in a bridal outfit (2003), proceeded to skip, miniskirt first, into Kevinland (2004) (where the groomsmen wore track suits that said "Pimp"), and had two babies in rapid succession (2005, 2006) never made it to Mother Mary. Divorced by spring (2007), she descended into anti-motherhood, eating Cheetos, guffawing, wielding umbrellas, and driving around with kids crying in the back seat, license-free and on the hunt for a cheeseburger.

If only she'd listened to the stylists on how to deal with her woman's, not virgin's, body, she might have kept her kids. I know Commissioner Gordon had his own reasons (none cited bad taste). But he saw the pictures. Someone could have not just told her, but insisted on V-necks in basic colors, which quietly allude to a nurturing body. On committing to a hair color, preferably honey-blond of a specific length, which suggests emotional stability. On abandoning those baby-doll dresses worn with cowboy boots. On hiding the poochy ex-midriff; it's not in fashion anyway. On no junk food forays in front of photogs.

Someone could have insisted she discard any suggestions that she's really just a white trash chick — a nasty undertone that's still plaguing Hillary Clinton. Conserve that insane materialism that made her shriek in a baby boutique (but not explain at what). Appear, at least, to slow down that V-8 appetite for awful clothing. Curb her daily emissions of the fumes of domestic chaos, so that it looks like she could go home and at least warm up a bottle. If she's going to have a little dog prop, make sure it's the same one from day to day, or at least the same color and breed.

But it was all over when she wore that bag and hit that car. (Cars are proving the bane of our existence in so many ways; bags are leading indicators of a star's well-being). That day back in August, Britney suddenly appeared outfitted in a purplish dress that actually covered her ex-gymnast's thighs. But more than that, she was sporting an impeccable, classic Hermes Croc Kelly Bag. It was as if snow had hit South Florida. Fragile Britney, monstrously self-conscious, was beaming with pride as if she'd realized she looked passable for normal. The world watched, transfixed, the auto-zoom lenses frozen. But someone should have a slipped a bona fide California driver's license into that surprisingly elegant bag.

In a moment, it was over.  Not only did she hit a car, she squatted down — dress, mini-Yorkie dog, and bag in tow — and neglected to cover herself with any of those items. The Croc Kelly turned into the Crotch Kelly. At that point, so many of the stylist scientists knew we'd turned a corner. It takes something intensely powerful to knock a Hermes bag off its pedestal.

Britney was damned.

Jana Martin is the MOLI View's contributing editor for Fashion & Design.

from "Baby One More TIme" by Denniz PoP and Max Martin