"My experience with radio broadcasting began [1931] when,  as a twenty-three-year-old, I was scheduled to speak on noise abatement over New York City's radio station, WNYC.  The studios were under the roof of the huge municipal building...Empty, murky corridors went off in several directions.  Dreading to be late, I feverishly sampled one corridor after another, banging on locked doors, forlornly rattling doorknobs...Finally, an oblong of light sprang onto the floor of one of the corridors.  From the door that had been opened stepped a tall, willowy, immaculately dressed young man.  Having approached me formally, he greeted me with all the ceremony I could have desired.  I was led into a room furnished with a few rickety chairs and an oblong  table bearing several microphones.  My companion showed me how close I should put my mouth to the microphone, and asked me to say a few words so that sound could be adjusted.  Then he spoke into his own microphone a few words of gracious introduction, and pointed to me.

"My manuscript before me, I was reading smoothly, without any of the confusions or hesitations I had feared, when I felt a strange sensation on the top of my head.  Something was happening to my hair.  I felt that I should not interrupt my speech by turning from the  microphone to investigate, but finally, as the sensation went on, I dared a quick backward glance.  The announcer was running his hands through my curly red hair.  As I could not shout into the air waves, 'Take your god-damned hands out of my hair!' all I could do, as I read doggedly on, was to shake my fist backward over my shoulder.  This had no effect.  The hand continued to move through my hair.  

"The instant I had got through my speech, I sprang up to face the announcer.  He was talking into his microphone, gracefully closing the show.  Having finished, he rose langourously,  delivered in my direction a deep courtier's bow,  and then dashed for the door,  slamming it behind him.  By the time I got the door open, the murky corridors had returned to their suicidal emptiness..."

Source:  James Thomas Flexner (1908-2003) in his autobiography, Maverick's Progress, Fordham University Press, 1996, pgs. 467-468.  Flexner was a distinguished man of letters writing about American history and art.  In 1931 he was the Executive Secretary for the NYC Board of Health's Noise Abatement Commission.