Answer:
Look into my face and I'm everybody. Scratch my back and I'm nobody.
You saw me where I never was and where I could not be. And yet within that very place, my face you often see.
It's got twists and turns, but has no curves. Twist it to fix it, turn it to ruin it. What is it?
What runs around all day. Then lies under the bed. With its tongue hanging out?
When can someone truthfully tell someone βwell doneβ but think they did a bad job?
I am rarely touched but often held. If you are smart you'll use me well. What am I?