There’s a moment, usually mid-June, when a man looks down at his feet and finds the same shoe he found last summer, and the summer before that. White leather, low top, scuffed at the toe, bought in a hurry because it went with everything and offended no one. We all own a version of the white sneaker; that’s the small shame of it. It’s the sartorial equivalent of answering, “I’m easy, whatever you want” when someone asks where you’d like to eat—a…