I boast three stripes, a spiral sight, Yet hold no power, nor shed no light. I spin and twirl, a silent sign, Of snips and trims, leave you looking fine. What am I?

I'm hard and dense, at least in most, as your body is my host. Without me, you would be, a pile of the world's nastiest jelly.

An oddly named device with a purpose to serve. Held in one hand, I open toward the sky. Raised over your head, I keep you dry.

I was an icon in the heyday of Microsoft word whenever you needed help. But often people did not like me. Now I am relegated to holding documents and being bent out of shape to clean hard to reach places.

Sometimes I hold a morning brew, or I’m the reflection staring back at you. In another sense, I bring dismay, taking your valuables away.