The Circle Stayed Full

The block party took up the whole street.

Somewhere between the bounce house, the DJ booth, and the rows of fold-out tables stacked with macaroni pie, collard greens, and fried cabbage, there was a circle that stayed full all day. Right in front of Miss Deena’s house, where the sidewalk turned warm under bare feet, the music stayed loud and the joy ran deep.

You could see the whole story of the community in that one circle.

There was a boy with twists just starting to sprout, bouncing to the beat with beads clicking at the ends. His auntie kept an eye on him while she danced nearby, her own hair in long copper-colored braids wrapped high like a crown. She wore them like she knew she was royalty. Because she did.

Next to her, an elder sat in a lawn chair, silver coils cut close and sharp. She wore gold-rimmed sunglasses and snapped her fingers every time the beat dropped. “They still don’t make music like the old days,” she said, even as her feet moved under her chair.

A group of teens took over one corner of the circle. One had a twist-out so big it bounced when she laughed, her hands flying as she tried to teach her friend the footwork to the new line dance. Her friend had a taper fade lined so clean it looked drawn with a ruler, and when he grinned, the whole row of aunties on the porch smiled back.

There were short fros, some dyed blonde or ginger, some sharp like halos, some soft like clouds. Cornrows pulled back into buns. Locs draped across shoulders. Box braids adorned with cowrie shells. Two-strand twists with parts clean as windows. TWA’s slicked down with shine, high puffs bobbing with every step.

Nobody looked out of place.
No one hair type was the standard—because they all were.

At one point, the DJ cut the music and shouted, “Make some noise if you love your crown!”

The cheer that followed rattled windows.

Little kids danced between legs. Uncles clapped and shouted encouragement. Aunties passed out shea butter samples and mason jars of cucumber water. Even the babies had coils popping under sunhats and tiny durags with cartoon prints.

It wasn’t about trends.
It wasn’t about approval.
It was about belonging.

About being surrounded by people who didn’t ask you to explain the texture of your hair, or why it took three hours to braid it, or how often you wrapped it at night. People who’d seen your hair in every season—pressed, puffed, braided, free—and loved you every time.

As the sun sank low and golden across their shoulders, someone started a soul train line. The circle opened up again, even wider now. One by one, they danced through—shoulders rolling, hips swaying, curls bouncing, locs flying, edges laid and sweat-slicked.

And as they clapped and hollered, you could feel it:
The celebration wasn’t just in the music.
It was in the freedom to be seen fully.
In every coil, every curl, every confident step forward.

Because in this circle, you didn’t need permission to be beautiful.
You already were.