Page 5 of 7
The Pink Tarantula opened on Post Street to great chaos. Almost immediately, it was packed with objects from Carmel's extensive kitsch collection. But the walls looked bare, especially with the high ceilings. Carmel remembered an artist she had bumped into, by the name of Greg Kulz. He had previously painted a jacket design for her, and then later duplicated the pattern as a tattoo on her back. Kulz was doing tattoos out of his home when she called. His personal life was a shambles, he was broke. Carmel asked him to paint a mural for the new salon. He hadn't done much mural work. She offered thousands.
Carmel wanted an ocean motif, but left specifics up to Kulz. He worked after hours and on weekends, covering everything with sheets of plastic, attacking the walls with a spray gun. As the months passed, an astonishing underwater ocean design appeared -- an enormous whale, a coral reef, a sea turtle, spiky puff fish darting about, all done in rich blues and greens.
First-time customers were transported into sensory overload. In addition to the ocean mural, there was another wall, filled with a school of hokey 1950s ceramic fish, positioned as if they were swimming in formation. An eclectic mix of Diamanda Galas, Herb Alpert, and '50s rockabilly blared from the stereo. Tarantula employees and customers were pierced and tattooed. Carmel offered jobs to cokeheads and ex-junkies, with the warning that if they fucked up, they were history. San Francisco's freaks now had their own hair salon.
"This industry thrives on artificial, pretentious bullshit," says Patrick, who worked at Carmel's salon for 10 years. "If you're a real person, you realize it's just phony. It's like the fashion scene. A lot of hairdressers buy into that. That's what made Tarantula so unique. You didn't have to do a performance. You could be yourself and do a good job. Other salons are like, 'We have to have movement.' We weren't into it. Fuck all that shit. Do a good job, the work will speak for itself."
The Post Street location offered proximity to two groups of clients who would become mainstays of the salon. Trannies and glam queens from the Tenderloin sat in chairs alongside snooty socialites from Nob Hill, all staring at the bizarre decor. This would be the only place in the city where one could get hair extensions, with the added bonus of ceramic fish and Johnny Cash songs.
Although the Tarantula was written up in magazines and its reputation spread through word of mouth, it never fit the conventional mold of a high-fashion salon. No hors d'oeuvres or glasses of chardonnay. Instead of valet parking, there were metered bike spaces out front, usually filled with the hairdressers' Harleys. One of the shop's favorite sayings was "The client is always wrong." People arriving one Halloween found the owner cutting and rinsing hair while wearing a Reno-white-trash, powder-blue leisure suit with padded stomach and butt, and one choice detail -- a blacked-out tooth. Hair-product salespeople spouting the virtues of some revolutionary new placenta conditioner would be cut off in midpitch. "Skip the bullshit!" Carmel would snap. "What's your point? Whose placenta is it?"
As his wife's salon grew and made more money, Robert continued to work as a banquet waiter and maitre d' at the St. Francis Hotel. After hours he hung with the Hell's Angels. His street name was "Skull," and his Harley was decorated with skull images. He was a "prospect" for the Angels, but never a full member. He may not have had time. He was managing all the Pink Tarantula's finances.
On March 5, Wednesday evening commuters heard radio reports of a shooting at a hairdressing salon South of Market. Police and paramedics packed the narrow street, choppers circling overhead. TV crews roamed the gathering crowd in front of the Tarantula. KPIX-TV's Joe Oliver stuck a mike into the face of Timmy Spence, and asked him if he had any thoughts on Carmel's pleasant and gregarious nature. Spence immediately thought, "Carmel? Are you kidding?" and burst out laughing. The footage never aired.
In 1991 a piece of real estate became available South of Market on Langton, one of those small two-block alley streets with a revolving set of odors, from piquant bum piss to leaking transmissions and burnt crack pipes. The neighborhood was tough on retail businesses because of the limited walk-by traffic, but the space at 71 Langton was zoned for live/work, an increasing rarity in local real estate. Carmel and Robert negotiated the deal, and lived in an Airstream trailer parked on the street until the remodeling was complete.
The second version of the Pink Tarantula featured a downstairs retail/kitchen space, a large upstairs living area, and a garage for the bikes. Carmel called in Greg Kulz, who whipped up another vividly colored mural, this one in a circus motif: clowns, midgets, acrobats, and a lion tamer, accentuated by an old-fashioned barber's pole. The same school of ceramic fish darted across one wall, serenaded by Tom Jones and Cher. Carmel hung a sign out front, a pink heart and a pair of scissors and the word "couture." Where their trailer was once parked now sat Mercedes Benzes and BMWs, the drivers slipping into the Tarantula to purchase six weeks of hipster credentials.
Another bonus of the new location: Langton was much closer to West Coast Beauty Supply, the store on Sixth Street from which nearly every salon in the city restocks its shelves. Curious about Carmel's new digs, West Coast owner Petra Ludwig went down to the Pink Tarantula for a haircut. She had known Carmel for 15 years, and was familiar with most of the salons in town; still, she was struck by the Tarantula's decor, which seemed freaky even for San Francisco.
"A sharp cookie," Petra says now. "Very unlike what she looked like. A lot of hairdressers will try to talk you into things that they like, but it's not what you want. She really put you at ease. Always liked to kid around."
