Belabored Behavior

From the short story I'm working on:

His curly, dark bangs fell in front of his eyes and he wrote the words across the bottom of the page in an elegant, sweeping script. He dressed like a boy from a century ago. His trousers were the color of cold fireplace ashes. His shoes were of a simple, leather oxford style and suspenders left a trace beneath his scratchy wool cardigan. His shirt was not gingham but it made one think of the word. The frames of his glasses here heavy, round and wire. Literature majors sometimes called him “that young Dickensian” and he heard this sometimes with pleasure. He packed his leather folio and tucked it beneath a willowy arm on his way down the stairs and out into the April chill. He swung his free arm into his peacoat, and reached into a pocket, feeling at a bag of tobacco and an elaborate cellular phone.