A bunch of impaled horses Bobbing up and down Centrifugal forces One word that's a noun

I'm a twisted little thing, found in places where styling is everything. I hold and fold styles with an air of mystery.

I split what’s whole and guide your way, One choice becomes two paths to weigh. I feed the mouth and shape the road What am I, with points bestowed?

My voice may be deep, rough, or high In winter I signify a jolly time. Long ago I always knew the hour If I'm very large, I live in a tall tower.

Curtain of flesh, drawn to hide the world's light, a blink away from dreams, guardian of sight.