I'm a small narrow piece, or a strand in a textile spool, I can be of cake, or carding from some wool. I'm not a splinter, or a slice. But me in your fingertip still doesn't feel nice.

The more you take, the more you leave behind. What am I?

Unfortunate strands of hair growing on the wrong side of the head, but seldom cut with scissors unlike those on the other side.

I grows smaller the more I’m given away. I disappear when too many are near. I’m valued most when no one notices me. Once broken, trust fades with me. I protect you best when I stay unseen.

What you do with the seat belts in your car. I'm also a way to tell someone that you're tying your shoelaces. In America, my first four letters are worth a dollar.