The basic idea behind colonic irrigation is that, thanks to our overly polluted, stressed-out lives where processed food, minimal sleep and maximum toxins are the norm, our colons aren't working as well as they should be. The result? Annals of hardened gut gunk stuck indefinitely to the walls of your colon, building up over time until you're carrying the ghosts of a hundred meals past in your lower intestinal tract.
It was this deeply disturbing concept, along with a couple of favourable, if pearl clutching (I get it, I'm clutching mine as I type too) write-ups of the treatment in glossy magazines that inspired me to try it out.
There was something immediately a little suspect about the spa I stepped into to have the treatment performed. Rather than the clean, gleaming, science-ified salons I'm used to frequenting for my beauty kicks, the St Kilda spa was littered with the chintzy pseudo-spirtual flotsam of a Bali holiday tourist trap, from bead-string curtains to wood-carved buddahs.
My therapist lead me down a hallway, asking me awkward questions about my bowel movements along the way, and looking at me with a mixture of judgement and incredulity when I was unable to answer most of them. "I guess I don't really think about it very much," seemed like a foreign excuse for bathroom related ignorance. It turns out, relieving oneself is serious business.
Hunched ominously in the corner of my treatment room was a device that looked somewhere between a mad scientist's version of the ideal birthing chair, and an alien probing throne. Essentially a cross between a toilet and a lounge chair, the colonic machine has a pillar, straddled by two leg rests. A thin, cheeky tube with a replaceable tip protrudes from the pillar. That little tube is the key to a colonic, it spits out the water that is intended to swoosh through your colon, washing away your problems. There is a drainage sink directly underneath it. The result is, during the treatment, you're granted a lot of distance from what's going on. The whole procedure has been designed to keep you as far from the messy reality of what's being flushed out as possible.
My therapist explained the mechanics of the machine, and how best to mount it, before broaching the subject of that scary little tube. All long red hair and hippy frankness, she cared nothing for my delicate sensibilities. "It won't feel like it's in very far, because it's not, but it won't come out either." And then, the filthiest phrase another human has ever uttered in my direction, "I normally get it in an inch, but you're a skinny mini, so you'll probably enjoy the full inch and a half. Oh, and don't stick it in your vagina." I was too mortified to even appreciate being called thin.
She left the room so I could settle myself. The process was not as uncomfortable, nor as difficult as one might imagine. When I had adjusted myself sufficiently, I rang the bell, and my therapist returned to turn on the tap. As luke warm water slowly swelled up into my intestines, my therapist continued to quiz me on my bathroom habits. "How many meals do you eat a day?" I answered. "And how many times do you go to the bathroom." My answer this time was, as I assume it is for most people, a slightly smaller number. "Well," she said, and began riling off a list of average meals and bathroom trips based not even vaguely on the figures I'd given her, "when you think about it, that's three meals plus snacks a day, and then one or two trips to the bathroom, so what you're left with at the end of a month is twenty meals, plus snacks, still stuck in your colon," she explained proudly.
"Uh, not exactly..." I suggested. She sharpened. "What do you mean?" "Well, we eat food for energy to keep our bodies going, we're basically made of food. There's supposed to be less coming out than there is going in..." She looked at me dubiously before handing me a catalogue detailing the perils of an impacted colon, and relisting the 'startling statistics' she'd just divulged. Also included in the booklet that was to keep me entertained for my half-hour of bowel cleansing were advertisements for foot detoxes, homeopathic treatments, and various other scientifically spurious or downright false alternative remedies I could tack on top of my treatment for an elevated price. I began to suspect, perhaps too late, that this woman was a charlatan.
After an explanation of the ins and outs of the hot and cold water taps I was to adjust throughout my treatment, I was left alone again. As for the sensation itself... Well, in other reviews I'd read about the process, it had been described as painful, with a prolonged release of gas before anything else came out. Perhaps it's because I balance my appetite for canapes and cheap red wine out with bushels of vegetables, but I got none of this. Instead, I felt extremely full and a little cold inside, a sensation that, whilst far from pleasant, was hardly uncomfortable either.
I expected, when the treatment had ended, to feel fabulously lighter, with a flatter stomach and a mysterious burst of energy, just like I'd read about in Vogue. The brave beauty writer who'd stirred me to attempt the treatment had noticed a brightness in her eyes, and a clarity to her skin after her irrigation that hadn't been there previously. All I noticed was that I was very hungry. This is because, as it turns out, colonic irrigation is essentially a very fancy, very expensive alternative to sticking your fingers down your throat and throwing up what you've just eaten.
Actually, to say I felt nothing is a lie. Colonic irrigation flushes away the food digesting flora in your gut, forcing you to swallow down either large quantities of yoghurt or fistfuls of pro-biotics to get the good bacteria back. After my treatment, I felt deflowered.
What's it good for: Nothing. Your body is naturally pretty effective at cleaning itself out, but a diet that's low in fibre, high in soft drink, drive-thru dinners and things your great grandmother wouldn't recognise as food can make its job harder. So ask yourself this: would you rather eat a stick or two of celery a day, or have a hippy stick a tube up your bottom and fill your bowels with water? I thought so. That isn't to say that your digestive system is an issue to be flippant about, bowel cancer is a huge killer, and it was an impacted colon that did Elvis in, but if you're having issues in the bathroom, the solution lies in a doctor's surgery, not a day spa.
How much is it: Treatment costs vary from salon to salon, but you're looking at at least $100 for a half-hour treatment.
Where do you get it: If you must, you can find places that perform colonics through google. I'm not going to link you to any.
How often do you need it: You don't need it.
Who should get it: People who believe in witchcraft, and bulimics who'd like to give purging from the other end a go.
Who shouldn't get it: Everyone else.
Would I do it again: Not for love or money.